#invisible man voice: JOHN DEACON

[gingerwerk]

I am half an hour into the weird Al movie and I can confidently say it’s the best movie of the year

[debdarkpetal]

Freddie Mercury, "The invisible Man", 1989, colorized.

© @color_byangelina on Instagram

[pedros-mustache-main]

i want your last name

summary: it’s only a year...

word count: 16k+ (holy crap i’m sorry)

warnings: idiot-strangers to lovers, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), frightening situations & suspense, alcohol consumption and drunkenness, language, innuendo, timeline inaccuracies

a/n: please bear with me as this is my first time writing rog and i’m relatively unsure about it. anyway, have a vaguely spooky fic just in time for halloween! xoxo! also: big thank you to @ineloqueent​ for helping with this fic! y’all, she literally held my hand and walked me through every paragraph what a saint

january, 1982.

“you’re off your rocker if you think i’m going to go through with this, jim.”

from his place on the couch, john snorts. “what? afraid she won’t be pretty enough for you, rog?”

roger levels john an uncharacteristically dark look, jabbing his finger through the air like a knight brandishing his sword or a cowboy his gun. “watch your mouth, deacon.” john holds his hands upwards in surrender, and roger returns his piercing gaze to jim. “i’m not getting married. that’s absolutely out of the question.”

long-suffering band manger and unofficial rockstar wrangler, jim beach drops his face to his hands with a harsh groan. roger cringes in his seat, shifting uncomfortably. he knows what this is about; they all know what this is about.

the end-of-tour party in montreal.

god, he’d gotten so wasted. even now, two months later, he can barely remember that night.

brian, ever the diplomatic, is the first to break the tense silence. he leans forward from his place on the couch beside john and offers roger his most sympathetic look. it does nothing to ease the growing knot of dread in roger’s stomach. “maybe we should leave you and jim to talk, rog.”

jim lifts his head. “i think that might be best, yes.”

roger huffs and falls slack against his chair. he drops his head back, and the ceiling turns topsy-turvy. if jim and the rest of management get their way, his life is bound to feel the same: flipped upside down, all that he knows turned on its head.

john squeezes roger’s shoulder as he slides by, a silent expression of solidarity, but it doesn’t feel like much. john’s got a wife, a parcel of kids. he’s happy at home. roger—he’s never been that way, never seen the point in all the domestics. he isn’t about to join the bloody women’s institute just because a little fun upset a few highbrow jackasses who can’t tell a party from a funeral.

the door to jim’s office shuts with a soft click, and roger imagines the lid of his coffin closing with the same resolute noise. he sits up and runs a hand through his hair. from behind his tinted shades, jim stares across the expanse of his desk. he drums his fingers, worrying his lower lip. roger’s nose twitches to the side. jim isn’t playing around. the proposal typed and printed in the manila folder under jim’s hand is serious, deadly so.

roger removes his sunglasses.

“it was just a party, jim.”

there’s a heavy beat of silence. jim blinks once. “roger, you went streaking through a group of nuns and priests.”

roger squeezes his eyes shut against the words, thankful, for once, that he has no memory of the event. “did i?” he lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck. “honestly couldn’t tell you what i did or didn’t do that night.”

“you did.” jim opens the manila folder and reads from a crumbled newspaper article. “queen’s roger taylor bared all this evening after the explosive conclusion to the game tour, filmed before thousands in montreal’s biggest arena. in a rare display of vulnerability, taylor stripped naked and exposed himself in the hotel lobby where queen resided. he stood on a table and beat his chest like a wild gorilla, chanting about the success of the evening’s filmed concert. lookers-on included none other than a group of nuns and priests recently arrived to canada on special assignment from the vatican. john deacon, bassist for queen, could also be seen laughing in the background.”

jim’s hand thumps against the desk as he drops the article, his stare decidedly unimpressed. “do you have anything to say for yourself?”

running his tongue over his teeth, roger hesitates. not his best moment, he would give jim that. but if he remembers anything about that party, it’s that he wasn’t the only sinner present that evening. john had gotten into his fair share of antics; crystal, too. it seems arbitrary that he should be the one singled out for punishment—and with a strange, archaic, probably-unethical punishment at that.

he shrugs, tossing his hands up in defeat. “i’m not going to be able to say what you want me to say. it was just a party. it got a little out of control. that’s all. i’m sorry if i gave the nuns a little show. i’ll—i dunno—write a letter if you want me to.”

jim scoffs. “write a letter if you think it’ll make me feel better—which it won’t—but that’s not the issue here.”

“then what is the issue? and where the hell does marriage come into it? because i’m not seeing the connection.”

jim sighs. his desk chair creaks as he leans back. taking off his glasses, he pinches the bridge of his nose before meeting roger’s eyes again. “this isn’t the first time something like this has happened, rog. remember new orleans?”

roger holds up an accusatory finger. “you were in new orleans too, jim, so you can’t attack me on that front.”

jim leans forward, his glasses between his hands. he runs his finger back and forth across the top of the frames. “i’ll be blunt. some other people in the office think you’re becoming too—how shall i say it?—explicit for the band. you’re not twenty any more, and raucous parties don’t fit queen’s image. they’re concerned that if more incidents like this hit the press, there will be a drop in sales or concert attendance because nice, suburban families don’t want to go to a concert with a drummer who flashes nuns. do you get what i’m saying?”

roger itches his temple and pushes against the sudden pain behind his left eye. “yeah. yeah, i do.”

“the marriage thing—that was barnaby potter’s idea. if you have beef with it, take it up with him.”

it’s roger’s turn to scoff. he throws his head back on the sound and curls his hands against the cool wooden arms of his chair. when he looks back at jim, he is surprised to see the older man rifling through a filing cabinet in the corner, his back turned.

roger surges forward with his ire anyway. “of course i have beef with it! slap my ass and scold me, sure, but hitch me to a woman i don’t even know for publicity? you’ve got to be joking.”

“personally, i think it’s an idea that will work if you give it a chance.” jim returns to chair and hands roger a sealed packet. “we’ve already got it all lined up, picked the lass and everything. it’s just for a year or so, until the tabloids calm down. then you can get divorced and go your separate ways.”

“wait, hold on—you picked her? without telling me? before even approaching me with the idea?”

“roger—” jim’s tone borders on a warning, but roger ignores his better judgement and cuts the other man off.

“you won’t even give me the option to choose the woman i have to shack up with? god, jim, i’m getting fuckin’ railroaded here!”

jim clenches his jaw. “i’m sure it feels that way, and i’m sorry for that. but it’s this—well, to be frank, it’s this or you’re out. the montreal party was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.”

roger can’t be sure but he thinks he sees red. never in his life has he so badly wanted to wring someone’s neck. it takes every fiber of his being, every molecule in his body, to keep from lunging across the room and tackling jim to the floor. he bites his tongue hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. it coats his mouth in a metallic taste, but it’s nothing compared to the rage boiling in his stomach.

still, he knows what his answer must be. it’s this—a sham marriage, a year of hell—or losing the life he’s worked so hard to build.

he rips the envelope from jim’s hand as roughly as he can when he stands from his chair. he hopes he gave the man a papercut.

“i’ll do it, you bastard,” he mutters. “but i damn well won’t be happy about it.”

“you look beautiful, [y/n].”

with a playful roll of your eyes, you offer ivy a smile. “thanks, love, but you and i both know this is just part of the job.”

ivy laughs and steps closer to adjust the puffed sleeves of your dress. “it might be a job, but damn, if it isn’t a comfortable one. i just about fell out of my seat when you told me you were quitting the agency to marry roger fucking taylor.”

you slide ivy a bemused smirk in the reflection of the long, oval mirror before you. “we’re not really getting married, ivy. you know that, right?”

ivy frowns and jabs her thumb over her shoulder, confusion awash on her round face. “unless i’m mistaken, we’re at a church, you’re in a wedding dress, roger taylor is the groom, and there’s a priest waiting for you right outside. did you read the memo wrong or something? feels like a wedding to me.”

sighing, you turn away from the mirror and reach for your bouquet of flowers. the white roses interspersed with springs of green leaves smell sweet, their stems tied together with a long white ribbon. you adjust one of the wayward petals then sit on the edge of a cushioned chair to slip on your heels. ivy leans against the door, her arms crossed over her chest.

“are you happy?” she asks, her voice soft.

you look up and pause. the heel of your white mary janes squeezes around your achilles’ tendon, and you wince as you shove your foot into the shoe. “what do you mean—am i happy?”

“i dunno.” ivy shrugs. she picks at an invisible piece of lint on the shoulder of her blue bridesmaid gown. “when we were kids, you always used to talk about your wedding day. now it’s here and—”

“ivy.” you rise from the chair and cross the floor to grab her arm. when you speak, you keep your tone firm and stare into her wide, brown eyes. “i’m doing this for the money and nothing else. it’s not a big deal. i don’t even consider today my wedding day. when roger and i get divorced i’ll find some other chap and make my childhood dreams come true, but that’s not today, and i’m okay with it. so yes, i am happy. this is what i want.”

ivy doesn’t appear convinced what with the way she continues to gnaw at her lower lip and shift her concerned look about your face. but she relents when someone knocks on the door, moving to allow you to grab the doorknob.

“wait, [y/n].” you turn at the door, eyebrows lifted in expectation. “how much are you getting paid?”

you press your pointer finger to your lips. “handsomely,” you whisper, dipping your head as though you are about to spill a secret. ivy leans in. her eyes sparkle with interest, and you inwardly smirk. she’s always been a sucker for drama and intrigue, your cousin. “but,” you continue. “that’s for me to know and you not to know.”

before ivy can respond, you pull open the door to see none other than your future husband waiting for you in the vestibule of the chapel.

he stands poised to flee the premises. he’s half-turned toward the closed chapel door, his hands worrying before his waist, his gaze hinged on the flurry of life outside the chapel, visible through the windows on either side of the door. you realize he’s fiddling with an unlit cigarette, not merely rubbing his hands together in an external sign of nervousness. you can’t make out whether or not his eyes are wild with fear or anger or some other emotion; the black tint of his sunglasses obscures the majority of his eyes. he’s handsome in his suit, but, then again, he’s roger taylor. you would be surprised to find a time in which he isn’t handsome.

when you clear your throat, his head whips to face you, and his fingers stop fidgeting. “sorry,” he mutters. “i was just—” he rubs a hand across the back of his neck and sighs. “they’re ready for you.”

“okay.” you nod with a smile and hope the gesture will ease whatever consternation plagues him. “i’ll be up in a moment.”

“right.” he nods once.

from behind his shades, you see his eyes trail from the top of your head to the soles of your shoes. it’s not sexual, not lewd; he’s just inspecting you, and you don’t blame him. who are you to him other than the model pulled out of a catalog, prepared and willing to be his wife until his time served is complete? you’ve spoken only once before this moment, and that phone-call was terse at best. roger made it perfectly clear his opinions on the arrangement, and he wanted to be sure—no, he needed to be sure—you understood his feelings on the matter. you assured him you had heard him loud and clear; your ear had rung for the next hour if only to remind you of his extreme distaste.

“roger,” you say, pulling his attention back from wherever his mind has drifted off to, his stare gone vacant but hardly serene.

his eyelashes flutter as he struggles to focus. “hm?”

“i said i’ll be up in a moment. you can go in now.”

he nods again, this time his chin smacking his collarbone in his urgency. he rubs his jaw, mutters something unintelligible beneath his breath, and turns on his heel, slipping back into the chapel sanctuary with heavy footfalls. your brows rise on your forehead in the wake of his exit. ivy hovers behind your shoulder.

“that’s him?” she squeaks. “that’s roger taylor?”

“yes.” your mouth twists in pity. “poor dear. he really doesn’t want this.” after waiting the appropriate amount of time to be sure roger has made his way to the front of the church, you step towards the entryway, but not before you can ask ivy one last question. “do i look okay? the pictures taken today are bound to be published in the papers.”

ivy chuckles and shakes her head as she lightly pushes your shoulder. “you look gorgeous and you know it. now go get married to a rockstar, you lucky bitch.”

the actual wedding ceremony itself is a formality. truly, it cannot be called a ceremony. there’s no wedding march, no attendees gently dabbing their tear-filled eyes, no heartfelt vows or kiss to signal the joining of two souls. instead, there’s you and there’s roger and there’s a red-faced, balding priest who points to the solid lines on which you must affix your signature to make the marriage certificate valid. roger signs first, and his knuckles are white against the ballpoint pen. you sign second, and the pen feels overly-warm against your cool palms. the priest blesses you with a sign of the cross and promises the certificate will be notarized and sent to your home address within the week.

then it’s done. you’re married. you feel largely the same as you did this morning. if it weren’t for the giant rock on your ring finger and the recent transfer of seventy-five-thousand pounds into your bank account, you might wonder if this was all a product of your over-active imagination, run away with a plot stolen from a b-list film.

the most vital part of the day, the reason you’re here and dressed in a gown with your hair crimped and nails painted, comes right after the priest scurries away to tend to his more important duties. jim beach stands from his place in one of the pews and ushers a photographer forward. he points between you and roger.

“all right, get snug, you two.” jim chews on a large wad of gum, and his words are slurred with an excess of saliva. “just a few pictures and then we’ll go eat. we all know that’s the only reason john showed up today.”

lounged against a pew, john raises his finger in agreement, and his wife elbows him in the chest. he sputters, doubling over in pain, while freddie laughs in amusement. beside you, roger watches the interaction with a back as straight as the pew benches, his jaw tight. you push your arm around his elbow and tug lightly. he inhales before turning to meet your eyes.

“what?” his voice is not cruel or unkind; it’s just tired.

“try and look happy, yeah?” you say, offering him a gentle smile similar to the one you’d given him in the vestibule. it’s the only thing you have to give him other than your hand in marriage and a chance to salvage his reputation; yet, again, it does not alleviate the tension pinching his brow. “the faster we smile the faster we can eat.”

roger shifts, as though he wants to pull away from you, but knows he shouldn’t. his feet dance back and forth on the carpeted stairs leading to the sanctuary state. “i should be telling you to try and look happy. this is just as much an inconvenience for you.”

you shake your head with a chuckle. “hardly. i make my living pretending to be happy, or moody, or sultry. whatever the director wants. i’m a pro at this. and besides,” you add. “it’s my job to make you look good. though, to be honest, that’s not very hard. you look good all on your own.”

roger sniffs and rubs the underside of his nose. he ignores your compliment and keeps his eyes trained on the photographer setting up his equipment at the base of the stairs. “maybe i could use some tips…”

he’s being glib but you take the opportunity to try and break the ice—the rock solid, absolutely frigid, polar ice-cap style ice—between you both. holding up a finger to the photographer, you slide to stand in front of roger. he’s taller than you, not by much, but enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye-contact. his blue eyes very much resemble the ice with which he’s surrounded himself. you can feel the chill on his shoulders, even as you smooth the wrinkles on his tailored dress-shirt.

“whenever i have to fake a smile,” you say, adjusting his thin tie. “i always think about the thing that makes me happiest.” he doesn’t ask you to expand, but you do anyway. “for me, it’s when my cousin ivy moved in with my mother and me. i was seven and she was six and it’s been one giant slumber party ever since.”

“is that your cousin?” roger’s eyes flick to the girl sitting across the aisle from the band and management. ivy has her hands beneath her thighs, her head dipped, her dark black hair covering a curtain over her face.

you nod. “mhmm.”

“she doesn’t look like you.”

you lift an eyebrow. “she’s adopted.”

“right, sorry.” roger exhales deeply, and the weight of the world slips from one of his shoulders to the other, tilting his body in a stiff hunch. “i’m feeling out of sorts today, as you can probably imagine.”

“just think about what makes you happy, roger.” you dare to lift a hand and press it against his cheek. his skin is smooth beneath your fingers. he must have shaved his morning. he looks boyish up close, and you wonder if, like you, he had ever dreamt of what his wedding day might look like. you wonder if, like you, he had given up those dreams to make today a reality.

the photographer takes a picture of your hand against roger’s cheek, and the sudden flash of light has you blinking in surprise. you look over your shoulder, mouth slightly parted and eyelashes fluttering to clear the white spots over your vision.

the photographer just shrugs. “ready now?”

the shrill of a ringing telephone wakes you the morning after the wedding, and you groan, pulled from a heavy slumber by the incessant and high-pitched tone. there’s a dull ache at the base of your skull, and your tongue feels like it’s coated with a fine layer of sand. beside you, a man snores softly, his face pink and eyelashes soft on his cheekbones.

oh yes, that’s right. you’re married to roger taylor, aren’t you? you’d drunk so much at the celebration supper that you’d nearly forgotten. the evening itself is but a hazy memory, but you think you recall freddie imitating a russian style jig atop a table, and phoebe going into great detail about all the fabulous dress-up parties you’ll be expected to attend now.

one thing you can’t remember is how you ended up in roger’s bed, dressed in one of his oversized t-shirts. your hair is still stiff with sticky hairspray, your legs still encased in a pair of nylon tights, and you don’t feel… sated, for lack of a better word. it’s probably safe to assume that you did not sleep with roger; you merely slept beside him. why you didn’t take up residence in his guest room will be the first question out of your mouth once his day starts. 

you might be his wife and he might be your husband, but you don’t want him getting any funny ideas about the nature of your relationship.

this is a job for you. nothing more.

the phone continues ringing and, lest roger wake before he is ready, you move to reach across him for the phone on his bedside table. you speak into the receiver on a whisper, adjusting your fist on the mattress to keep from falling flat on roger’s stomach.

“hello?”

“uh—hi.” there’s a pause, as if the speaker is uncertain how to react to your voice on roger’s line. “is this [y/n]?”

“yes. who is this?”

“it’s brian. we met yesterday.”

you bite your lip to keep from laughing. “yes, i know who you are, brian.”

he chuckles softly. “sorry—i can’t remember much of last evening. it’s probably best i make a second introduction if i can’t recall the first.”

“well then, i’m [y/n] [y/l/n]. [y/n] taylor now, i suppose. pleased to meet you.”

“brian may. the pleasure is all mine. ours, really—me and the guys. what you’re doing is—we appreciate it, truly. you’ve saved the band, in a way.”

“that’s kind of you, brian.” you glance at roger out of the corner of your eye. he hasn’t moved a muscle, and his face is the most serene you’ve ever seen it. saved the band? you doubt it. smoothed a few ruffled feathers? that’s certainly more likely. “it’s no trouble, though. it’s just my job. what was it you called for?”

“roger was supposed to be at the studio an hour ago. we have a recording session today.”

“shit, really?” pressing the receiver to your shoulder, you twist your wrist upwards, but find your watch missing. you scan the unfamiliar room. a digital clock glows red on a built-in bookshelf. “is it really nearly one o’clock?!”

“afraid so.”

“shit, i’m sorry. i only just woke up. yesterday was hectic—to say the very least. i’ll have roger out the door in half an hour.”

“thanks, [y/n]. you’ll find this happens a lot after a night out. but, hey, at least you’re not shouting at me like rog does.”

after passing pleasantries a moment more—brian asks you about ivy, who you are surprised he remembers, and you ask him about his stargazing habits—you reassure brian that roger will be on his way as soon as possible. you drop the receiver on its base with more force than necessary, but the crack of plastic on plastic and the slight ring of the internal bell gets roger moving.

he grunts, twisting his head away from the noise.

you shake his shoulder gently. “wakey wakey, sleeping beauty. the day is already half gone.”

roger yawns as his eyes blink open. he rubs a hand down his face and arches his back like a cat as he stretches. slumping back against his pillows, he stares at you for a moment, his eyes roaming your face.

“are you an angel?”

you laugh at this, and he winces, holding the heel of his hand to his forehead. “no. i’m your wife. are you still drunk?”

“maybe a little.” his eyelashes flutter rapidly as he adjusts to the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. he waves his hand around your head, and you lean back slightly, away from the exposed skin of his chest and striking collarbones. “you look like an angel with the sun all around your head. ‘s like a halo.”

“that’s kind of you.”

he shrugs, shaking his head. “just sayin’.”

“i think you’re still drunk.”

as if to prove your point, he hiccups then falls to his side on the bed. “maybe.” his cheek is pressed firmly against the mattress, smushing half of his face flat. soft, steady breaths filter in and out of his parted lips, and his eyelids begin to grow heavy as he is dragged back to his dream world. he looks more tired child than grown man, but the sight is endearing. still, your current job is getting him out the door and on his way to the studio. you can’t let him be any later than he already is.

“oh no, you don’t.” grabbing his arm, you pull as you slide from the bed. roger resists your strength and moves to push his entire face against the mattress. he mumbles something against the sheets, but you can’t make out the words. “brian already called. you’re late, pretty boy.”

roger rolls over onto his back, and the movement causes you to lose your grip on his wrist. you stumble backwards then plant your hands on your hips.

“come on, roger. you’ve got to get up.”

“i don’t want to. yesterday was shit, and all i want to do is stay in bed.”

with a sigh, you gather your wedding dress from its heap on the floor. you lay it over your forearm and pull open the closet door. “nice to know you thought our wedding day was shit,” you say. 

you mean it only as a joke, but roger sits up fast, swaying slightly with the movement. he catches your eye as you exit the walk-in closet, and you pause, turning the light off slowly, held by his angry stare.

“fuck off,” he says. “i don’t want this. i don’t want you.”

to say his words don’t sting would be a falsehood. no one wants to hear such a thing, least of all from their spouse. the words make your heart clench painfully in your chest, and you wonder what he sees when he looks at you. he doesn’t look at you, though; he cradles his forehead in his hands, his back hunched where he sits on the edge of the bed.

inhaling deeply, you reach up and begin to remove some of the pins lost in your hair. you head for the bedroom door. “well, while you sit and sulk, i’ll pack you a lunch. you’d better shower, though. you reek.”

from your place puttering about the kitchen, you hear the shower start up a few moments later. good—at least he’s moving. you haven’t the foggiest idea where anything is in his kitchen, but you make do with what you can find in the poorly stocked fridge, and pack him a light lunch. you start a pot of coffee, too, and lean against the counter as you wait for the pot to fill.

the ancient coffee pot takes too long, and you can hear roger humming in the shower down the hall. 

your nails tap against the counter. 

you’re antsy, unsure of what to do with yourself now that the wedding is over. how do you be a wife to someone who doesn’t want a wife? how do you be a friend to someone who doesn’t want a friend?

it’s too big of a problem to solve in the span of time it takes for roger to finish his shower, so you slip into the bedroom and peel off your stockings and his tee-shirt. you put on a sweater, some jeans, and wipe the day-old makeup from your face with a wet-wipe. the movements are tried and true, and they calm your racing thoughts. 

you have an entire year to figure out how to live with roger taylor. you don’t need to have it all figured out this morning.

the coffee pot dings, its job complete, just as you and roger both enter the kitchen.

but he hesitates before taking another step, and so do you. 

his hair is wet from the shower. a white sweatshirt swallows his torso. part of the hem is tucked into his white-washed jeans, and you’re struck by the narrowness of his hips. the weariness is gone from his face, replaced with a youthful sort of glow and stubborn cheekiness. you aren’t sure how he’s managed it, but he looks well-rested. 

you lift a hand to your cheek. you must look a state. it takes a lot longer for you to put yourself back together after a night out.

he stares at you for a moment, then shakes his head and crosses the kitchen to fill a travel mug with hot coffee. gnawing on your lower lip, you lean your hip bones against the kitchen island as he putters about the room, quiet as the grave.

it’s only your first day as husband and wife, and under such unique circumstances, you shouldn’t expect him to—what? make conversation? ask about you and your life?

“so… what do you think you’ll work on today? in the studio, i mean.”

he glances over his shoulder then shrugs. “not sure. probably something related to the rest of the tour.” bending at the waist, he pulls a drawer out from beneath the sink. his ass looks good in those jeans, but you doubt he’d like you staring, so you look away, mouth screwed to the side. “do you know where the sugar packets are?”

you frown and push away from the island, rounding it to stand beside him. “no?” he turns at the sound of your confused voice, and his head jolts backward to see you standing so close. “i don’t live here, remember?”

“well, you do now.” he swivels on his heel and pulls a small white jar across the counter. lifting the lid, he sighs. “i can’t find the sugar.”

“actually, about living here now...” you follow as he starts for the door, grabbing his keys from a small table in the foyer. “the bedroom situation? i figured we’d have separate bedrooms but last night—”

roger opens the front door and silences you with a hard stare. “the only other bedroom is my practice room.”

your shoulders slump. “oh.”

“i wasn’t going to make it a guest room if you’ll be gone in a year.”

“but where will i—”

“fuck it all, [y/n].” he curls his hand around the doorframe, hanging his head. a cold winter breeze sweeps through the hall, and you pull your jumper tight around your waist. “just sleep in my bed, okay? i don’t fuckin’ care.”

you swallow hard, nod. you’d been prepared for some measure of hostility, some measure of resentment. what you hadn’t been prepared for is the way his rebuffs settle like dead weight in your stomach. he alone can be blamed for this; it was his actions that drove management to force you upon him. yet, he seems to look at you with nothing more than dread and disgust. perhaps it is because you are the physical embodiment of his wrongdoing. his antics created you, and he is powerless to wipe you from his eyesight as he might a clump of dirt. you are a permanent stain—at least for the next year.

maybe you can’t begrudge him his disdainful attitude, then.

you come to when a car horn blares outside. 

roger is gone, the door open, void of his claustrophobic presence. leaning around the frame, you catch sight of him and his blond hair as he reaches his car parked on the side of the road. spinning on your heel, you grab his sacked lunch from the fridge and race after him.

“roger!”

he looks up from his car door, and you can’t help but note the way his shoulders lift, tensing at the sight of you running barefoot down the sidewalk. the winter air quickens your steps, and you’re out of breath and huffing when you reach his side. white plumes escape your mouth and drift towards the gray sky.

“you forgot this,” you say, pushing the brown paper sack against his chest. you curl your toes against the frigid bricks beneath your feet.

his brow pinches. “what is it?”

“a lunch. you haven’t eaten yet.”

for the first time since meeting him, the ghost of a true smile lifts the corners of his mouth as he stares down at the sacked lunch. he lifts a hand, and you are surprised by its warmth when he covers your knuckles with his palm. his eyes flick upwards, meeting yours.

“thanks, [y/n].” he tilts his head to the side. “i’m sorry i’ve been a prick. this is all… really new for me.”

you slip your hand from his grasp, sure that your smile is somewhere between girlish and shy. a sharp wind whips through the stitching of your sweater, and you shiver.   

“we’ll figure it out,” you say, and it’s a message to both him and yourself. you will figure this out.

“yeah.” he slides his key into the slot on the car door. “yeah, we will.”

“oh. rog, wait.” you stop him by putting a hand on his shoulder. when he twists at the waist, you wind your arms around his neck before he has time to react. you squeeze tight, your toes skimming the ground. he feels firm, stiff like a board. “hug me back,” you whisper against his ear. “there’s someone across the street taking photos.”

the sound he makes in your ear—a grumble, a low growl—sends your blood pumping into overdrive. he’s angry, but he dutifully embraces you as any newlywed husband might. his arms are strong around your lower back, and you melt into him.

god, he feels good. you can’t remember the last time you were held like this. he smells like the soap from his shower, and his sweatshirt is soft. his hair brushes against your cheek, and your eyelashes flutter in response. you should pull away; you’ve hugged him long enough to appear the besotted wife, desperate for her husband to stay home the day after their wedding. the paparazzi surely got what they wanted.

so, why is it so hard for you to let go?

you shake yourself free of the feeling, whether it be longing or desire or something else entirely.

sliding your hands across roger’s shoulders, you drop from your raised stance. you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and without hesitation. just in case.

“go on.” you hurry to step back, to allow him the space the leave. “you don’t want to keep the boys waiting any longer.”

roger’s eyes linger a moment more, his stare somewhere between searching and assessing. then he mumbles an oath beneath his breath, wrenches open his car door, and slips inside. the door slams behind him, and the engine roars to life. you retreat further at the sound, wrapping your arms around your stomach when the car tires squeal against gravel in his haste to get away.

some blissfully wed husband he makes.

biting the inside of your lip, you turn back to the house. the front door remains open wide, and it’s likely the heat has long since left the warmth of the halls. you pause long enough to lift the paper from the front stoop. what you see beneath the fold makes you hesitate all the longer.

there’s a photo of you and roger on the left side of the page beneath the headline, roger taylor marries model. the grainy, black and white image of your wedding day presents you, the smiling bride, and roger, the smiling husband, joined hand-in-hand beneath a heavy wooden cross. to the untrained eye, all is joy in the taylor household. the article describes the ceremony, though the details are patchy and entirely false, as intimate and “drenched with love.”

you scoff before you can stop yourself. clearly, the author of the article has encountered roger taylor under duress.

but it’s not the article which holds you frozen to the front stoop, your exposed toes and fingers sticking like icicles to the newspaper. rather, it’s the smear of red paint slashed over your picture. it’s the word slag scrawled over the article, an arrow pointed in the direction of the wedding photo.

still, in a one-on-one meeting you’d had with jim beach prior to the wedding, he’d warned you of something like this. though all four queen members are undeniably attractive, it is roger who makes the fans go gaga.

maybe it’s his boyish good looks contrasted with his raspy voice. maybe it’s the frenzy with which he plays, his easy charm and sunkissed skin. whatever it is—roger’s fans are a possessive lot.

jim had told you to prepared for a few nasty letters or scathing criticism in the papers. he had told you it wouldn’t last long, just until the initial shock of the marriage wore off, just until roger’s fans accepted the reality that they were not be his lawfully wedded wife.

so, truly, the first incident does not scare you. you just hadn’t realized the scrutiny would begin so soon. if anything, the painted paper makes you chuckle. roger’s fans certainly don’t like to waste time.

you toss the paper in the bin beside the stoop, and it’s forgotten before the day is over.

a week bleeds into a month, and you find yourself falling into some semblance of a life with roger.

you cohabitate for the most part. he does not outright rebuff your attempts at friendship, nor does he accept any olive branch you extend.

conversation is stilted, his contributions terse and monosyllabic. he prefers your home-cooked meals be eaten before the television, and not at the dinner table, where he would be forced to engage with you. he doesn’t even give in when you ask if there’s anything he’d like to rant about. he just shakes his head and bangs on his drums well into the evening, despite having banged on them the whole day at the studio.

yet he sleeps beside you, allows you to sleep beside him.

without fail, he appears more at ease come nightfall. he sheds whatever protective shell he wears throughout the day in favor of something softer, something more tender. you’re not sure what changes him when he walks over the threshold of the bedroom, but something does. perhaps it’s the soft lamplight or the hum of the fan he insists be kept on despite the chill of winter.

there’s a part of you that wonders if it might be your very presence that softens him, but you’ve taken to silencing that part as of late. he’s long-since proven that you hold no sway over him whatsoever, and that’s okay. your job is to be a buffer between his antics and the all-seeing eyes of the public. nothing more.

two months to the day after your wedding, you’re stood in the hallway, slipping on a pair of earrings, and brushing away roger’s hurried attempts to get you through the door. he has one hand on the doorknob, the other wrist tilted to expose his watch face.

“[y/n], please!”

“roger, the party doesn’t start until queen arrives. give me just a minute more.”

tonight, the savoy hotel, the first music industry party you’ll attend by roger’s side as his wife.

you’re nervous.

your hands shake as you press the earrings into your ears, and you rub your lips back and forth, feeling the slick lipstick rub over the flesh. you’re thankful the dress you chose is a gauzy sort of chiffon. if you sweat, no one will be able to tell, thanks to the pale blue of the fabric.

impatient as ever, roger drags himself from the door to stand behind you, as though prepared to throw you over his shoulder. however, a smirk pulls at your mouth when he pauses in his frustration long enough to primp and preen his hair in the mirror. you catch his eye, your fingers paused in snapping your clutch closed. he sees your smirk, and his own lips pull on a wry smile.

the moment hangs in the air, thick with—what? tension? no. something else. camaraderie comes to mind.

your eyes remain locked with his, and his grin spreads until he is shaking his head with amusement. he pushes your shoulder, but the touch is friendly, almost brotherly in nature.

“come on,” he says. “i don’t want to miss all the good wine.”

nodding, you start for the door, trailing behind him to flick the lights off. darkness engulfs the house, the only light the white glow of the moon spilling through the window above the kitchen sink and a night light plugged in along the hallway baseboard.

but then the phone rings.

roger stamps his foot against the floor, the door already half-open. “fuckin’ hell!”

“let me get it.” you’re halfway down the hall before he can stop you. “i’ll tell them to buzz off. hold on!”

“i’m going to get the car started,” he says. his voice echoes through the hall to meet you where the phone hangs in the kitchen. “you have two minutes, [y/n]. two minutes!”

lifting the phone from the receiver, you press it against your ear. “hello?”

at first, you hear nothing on the other end.

but you’re sure you heard the phone ring, so you lean closer to the receiver and plug your opposite ear in a piss poor attempt to hear better. “hello? this is [y/n] taylor speaking.”

the sound of heavy breathing—deep inhales, hard exhales—meets your ear. deep inhale, hard exhale. over and over and over.

your throat tightens, but you push past the lump. “hello? who’s there?”

a stuttering of breath on the inhale, a shaky exhale. a croak, voice poised to speak.

only you slam the phone back on the receiver before the person on the other end can say a word.

for a moment, you stand still, eyes glued to the phone, mouth parted in shock.

but then roger honks the car horn, and you shake yourself free of the unsettling feeling. a missed connection, you tell yourself. a wrong number. a mistake. that’s all it was—a mistake.

still, you are shaking when you slide into the passenger seat of roger’s car. he glances at you before pulling into the busy street.

“are you cold?” he asks. he turns the heat up, blasting the air against your face. “you’re shaking.”

“no,” you say, and, truly, you aren’t. he loaned you an ostentatious fur coat for the occasion, lined with a smooth brown fabric, and you are comfortably warm beneath the heavy material. “just nervous.”

roger snorts, his eyes sliding to you. “nervous? surely you’ve been to parties before. you’re a model, for god’s sake.”

“i’m not sure what kind of model you think i was, rog. i did mostly print, never runway. parties were never a part of my nine-to-five.”

“oh.” his mouth screws to the side. “i guess—well, to be honest, i kinda thought models all did the same kind of work.”

“most people do. that’s in the past now, though.” you shift, glance out the window, and watch the streetlights blur in a hazy streak of orange and yellow. he’s driving fast, and you grip the side of the door, willing your heart to stop racing.

the car slows to a stop beneath a red light. roger taps his fingers on the steering wheel, and the silence in the car is deafening.

you should strike up a conversation. he seems willing tonight, and maybe that’s due to the cramped nature of the car, but it’s an opportunity nonetheless.

only you can’t stop thinking about the phone call, about the heavy breathing and the unanswered questions. you shut your eyes and find yourself mirroring the caller’s breathing patterns.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“so, you’re done with modeling?”

you open your eyes and turn to look at his profile. why he insists on wearing sunglasses in the dead of night you will never understand, but the sight alone makes you smirk. he knows he’s attractive; you have to give him credit for embracing it.

“that’s why i married you,” you say.

roger laughs—and you realize it’s probably the first time you’ve heard the sound. his laugh aligns with the light timbre of his voice, and the anxiety in your chest eases to hear him sound something other than malcontent.

“i knew you were a gold digger!” it’s a joke—you can tell by the quirk of his mouth and the lines around his eyes—but you rush to defend yourself all the same.

“no, i’m not!” you hesitate before shrugging with a rueful chuckle. “well… maybe a little. i won’t deny that the money i get from this arrangement really helps. i was looking for a way out of modeling, anyway.”

“really?” roger’s eyebrow arches, and, as the car turns into the savoy, the wrap-around drive clogged with limousines, sport cars, and photographers jostling for a good spot, you catch a glimpse of admiration on his face. “what do you want to do now?”

“i’m not sure. go back to school. i’ve got a head for maths, so maybe accounting or something.”

roger twists his head to meet your eyes, and his smile is earnest. it steals the breath from your lungs.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“you don’t strike me as an accountant, dove.”

“why not?”

“accountants are stuffy, greasy men. you’re… you know…” he waves a hand, inches the car forward as the line moves. camera bulbs flash in the world outside, but within the car, all you can focus on is roger and his next words.

“i’m…?” you’re fishing, but this is the first time he’s given you more than the time of day, and you’re eager to get something, anything, out of your husband.

he shrugs, and his hands curl around the steering wheel. a muscle in his jaw ticks. “you’re too nice.”

you look away. “ah—nice.” not what you’d been expecting him to say.

he pulls the car to a stop along the hotel’s entrance, and a sharply dressed attendant opens the door. sliding out after roger, you instinctively reach for his hand. he spares you a short glance and squeezes your fingers together in a gesture of encouragement.

a black—not red—carpet lines the walkway from the drive to the open hotel doors. velvet ropes hold back the crowd of photographers, reporters, and fans lucky enough to have squeezed their way to such a prime viewing spot. camera flashes paint the inside of your eyelids with bright, white spots. despite the chill of winter, the air is hot, heady with glitz and glamor. it’s hard to distinguish any one voice over the plethora of people vying for attention, and your head swims in the chaos of it all.

roger moves easily from one side of the rope to another. he is in his element, grinning for the cameras and joking with reporters who grab him long enough for a quote. his moments with the press are short, few and far between. he much prefers the fans—their simpering smiles, tear-stained cheeks, and waving slips of paper begging for a signature. you don’t blame him. who could ever resist such unfettered adoration?

near the end of the carpet, a reporter snags roger’s attention with his waving arm. palm still clasped in roger’s, you trail behind your husband, hovering just behind his shoulder. the cool smile you perfected in your modeling days remains fixed on your face, even as the reporter acknowledges you with a tilt of his head.

“is this your wife, roger?”

the reporter has to shout to be heard over the sudden surge of excitement as a new celebrity takes their first step on the carpet. it’s kate bush, if you aren’t mistaken. you could be wrong, though. the reporter’s query pricks your ears, dividing your focus between the cacophony around you and the question at hand. thus far, you’ve remained nameless by roger’s side. no one—fan or press alike—has asked after you, and you’re happy for it.

roger turns to look at you, and his grin spreads. he goes so far as to slip his arm around your waist, tugging you against his side, keeping his gaze on your profile. a sudden rush of blood floods your cheeks, and you duck your head beneath his watchful eyes. yet you find your own smile widening. the action is not one you have to force or fake, though. it’s easy to smile when roger is smiling.

“yes, this is my bride,” roger says. “[y/n].”

the hand he’s placed on your waist squeezes the flesh of your hip, pushing you further against him. to keep from tripping over your own legs, you press a hand against his chest to steady yourself. you can feel his heartbeat beneath your fingers; his heart pulses to a steady rhythm. your own heart beats twice as fast.

the reporter checks something on his small pad of paper. “is it true that you used to be a model, [y/n]? there are rumors that this marriage is a publicity stunt.” he hesitates, glancing over his shoulder as someone bumps his back, pushing him against the velvet rope. once righted, he continues. “there are rumors that you were hired to get the press to stop talking negatively about the montreal incident.”

you open your mouth to speak, but roger jumps in before you can utter a single syllable.

“are you joking?” he tosses his head back in an easy laugh and pulls you even tighter against his side. you’re afraid if he draws you any nearer you will absorb into him completely. but with the way the lights dance off his eyelashes and his hair looks perfectly tousled and his body feels strong against yours, you aren’t sure that would be a bad thing.

“i’m crazy about my wife!” he says, and the words go straight to your heart like a wildfire. “you should get yourself one, mate.” he playfully slaps the reporter’s upper arm. “they’re great fun!”

the reporter arches an eyebrow. “it’s just that i know you’ve gone on record as not exactly believing in marriage and—”

“what do you want me to do? kiss ‘er? would that make you happy?” a shit-eating grin rises on his face, indignant and cocky all at once. he shoots you a look out of the corner of his eye; you bite your lip. “will that get you off my back?”

“that’s not really—”

“here.” he taps the wrist of a bystanding photographer then points to you, twisting his body so that you stand face to face. “put this in your bloody paper!”

grabbing either side of your face, roger dips his head to capture your lips with his. for a moment, you remain unsure. you hold fast to his wrists, your mouth unmoving. the blood in your veins stands frozen in shock, and your heart presses painfully against your ribcage. somewhere in the back of your mind, your conscious screams for you to react, to play along, but it’s not until roger slides one hand from your cheek to the small of your back that you register what part you must play.

thank god it’s not a difficult role.

with a tilt of your head, you wrap your arms around his neck and hold tight. he tastes faintly of cigarettes and the mints he uses to freshen his breath. his lips are soft, softer than you’d anticipated. you can hear the clicking of cameras, feel the blinding light of flashbulbs pierce your eyelids, sense the growing interest in your display of affection, but none of it penetrates the bubble—the bubble of you and roger, of his lips and your lips, of his arms holding you close, his very air becoming yours.

he pulls away entirely too soon, and his smile is all the more cheeky. you press your fingertips to your lips, lower your face, and draw in a sharp breath.

“there! that could enough for you?”

roger steers you away from the reporters and into the sanctuary of the hotel at last. a rush of cool air meets you and, though it is mid-winter, you sweat beneath roger’s fur coat. the gentle whoosh of air-conditioning is a blessing against your hot skin.

as you enter the ballroom transformed for the event, roger lowers his mouth to your ear. “sorry about that, poppet.” the low register of his voice and the feeling of his breath against the back of your neck sends a shiver down your spine. “i’ve dealt with that tosser before, and he really grinds my gears.”

“‘s fine, roger,” you manage to say through your tight throat. “it’s what i’m here for, yeah?”

he stops walking, and his hand moves from your back to your wrist. his eyes drift over your face, calculating, searching. you let him look. you aren’t sure what he’s looking for, but you get the feeling that he’s truly seeing you for the first time. even in the manufactured blue light of the room, even with the myriad of tables surrounded by producers and singers and agents alike, his face visibly softens and his hand curls around your wrist.

“roger! [y/n]! over here!”

three tables away, freddie waves his hand, beckoning you over. roger drags you along, his fingers intertwining with yours as you sidestep people already lounging at their seats. once at the table set aside for queen and guests, roger pulls out your chair, and you sit, smoothing your hands over your skirt. he sits beside you and leans to his side to whisper something to john. on your right sits chrissie may, and you offer her a smile in greeting.

the function—a charity benefit organized to bring awareness to the falklands disagreement—comes and goes without issue. the dinner is bland, but the wine is good. chrissie is pleasant, and it’s your first chance to speak to another band member’s wife since the wedding. you appreciate her advice, laugh at her stories, and enjoy yourself without restraint. it doesn’t hurt that as roger drinks more, he more pays attention to you. you really shouldn’t encourage him, but when he slings an arm around your chair and pulls you closer, when he turns his head to whisper a joke in your ear at brian’s expense, when he plays with a loose lock of your hair, twirling it around his finger, it’s all you can do not to melt like the ice-sculpture in the center of the room.

come the end of the event, you find yourself walking between chrissie and veronica, your steps slow as the boys stumble through the hall. roger and john cannot stop laughing, though no one has said anything remotely funny for the last few minutes. they cling to one another like koalas to trees, as though the other might drop to the ground if released. brian and freddie aren’t any better. they sing off-key, their voices bouncing off the empty walls and laminate floors. you aren’t sure what part of the hotel you’ve wound up in, but it’s certainly less plush than the ballroom. still, you smile when roger slides his sunglasses over his eyes and snorts at one of john’s inane comments.

your smile falters when the sound of veronica’s labored breathing, pregnant as she is, reaches your ears.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

in the flurry of the evening—amidst the kiss and the dinner and the joking and the drinking—you’d forgotten about the phone call.

chrissie reaches out to grab your arm when your steps stutter. “are you okay?” she asks.

you stop walking. if the boys get into trouble around the corner, you’ll surely hear it.

meeting chrissie’s wide eyes, you frown. you hate the put a damper on the evening’s chipper mood, but the memory of the phone call crashes to the surface, bringing with it anxiety and unease. roger doesn’t need to know, but perhaps the other wives experienced a similar phenomenon. perhaps it’s all in your head. either way, you’d like a second opinion.

“this is going to sound weird, but… have either of you ever gotten a strange phone call?”

“phone call?” veronica rubs a hand over her swollen stomach. “what do you mean?”

you explain the events prior to your departure earlier in the evening, and the concerned looks that settle on chrissie and veronica’s faces stir the uncertainty in your stomach.

“that doesn’t sound good, [y/n],” chrissie says.

you gnaw at your lower lip. “no, i suppose it doesn’t.”

“have you told rog?”

you shake your head. “i don’t want to trouble him. not if it’s just some practical joke. it very well could be our kid neighbor having a lark.”

another memory drifts to the surface: the newspaper, the red paint dripping across your photograph. slag, they’d written.

you’d forgotten about that too.

veronica pulls you back to the present with her even tone. “i think you should tell him. if someone is harassing you, even if it’s just the once, don’t you think he should know?”

“i guess but—”

“hey, party people!” john sticks his head around the corner, breaking the conversation with his over-loud voice. “guess what we found?”

“judging by your wet trousers, i’d say a pool.”

john trips down the hall to grab veronica’s arm. “have i ever told you that you’re brilliant?” he presses a noisy kiss to her cheek, and even veronica isn’t capable of remaining firm under such affection.

like a child who has found an interesting twig, john crooks his arm in a follow-me motion, tugging his wife toward the pool. “come on. come see!”

veronica follows john around the corner, but before you can follow, chrissie presses her palm to your shoulder.

“you should tell roger,” she says. “before it gets serious.”

you nod, promise her you will, then make your way to the indoor swimming pool, knowing full well roger won’t hear a word of the incident.

the savoy’s pool room is understated in comparison with the rest of the hotel. though the ceiling stretches high, skylights allowing moonlight to shimmer over the undisturbed water, the room is just as hot, just as stuffy, as any other hotel pool. you drop your coat and rog’s to a plastic lounge chair as soon as you enter, swamped as you are by the thick air.

all nerves, all worries about the phone call, fade away as you slip your shoes off and watch roger and john’s poor poolside rendition of abbott and costello’s “who’s on first” routine. roger can’t keep up with john no matter how hard he tries, but their combined effort is valiant.

laughing, you clap as they take their theatrical bows and only laugh harder when john trips over the edge of the pool mid-bow. he lands belly-first in the clear water, rising a sputtering, drenched mess, his hair and clothes sodden to the bone, though his eyes are bright with mischief. he swims to where veronica sits with her ankles in the water and, before she can sternly admonish him, has her pulled into the churning pool beside him.

brian is next in. he cannonballs in the deep end, and chrissie follows of her own volition. the impact of their jump launches a tidal wave of water in your direction, and you screech, nearly falling in your attempt to avoid getting wet.

but then a pair of arms wrap around your waist, lifting you from the cool, albeit slippery, floor.

“roger, no!” you twist in his tight hold. “no, roger, don’t!”

your voice echoes in the room, bouncing off the windows and walls; yet roger ignores your pleas for release. he shuffles to the edge of the pool at the behest and cheering of his friends, each treading water, watching as you struggle to break free.

the water beneath your feet rises and falls, sloshing this way and that. you can see the bottom of the pool from where roger holds you, and there’s a delicate, inlaid design of a turtle twelve feet down on the pool’s stone foundation.

you curl your nails in roger’s arm. “roger, i can’t—”

he tosses you in before you can finish the sentence.

you fall through the air with a scream, land on your back, and sink beneath the surface of the water. chemically-laced water fills your mouth, your nose, and your lungs scream for air.

for a moment, fear grips you, not unlike the way it gripped you in the hallway of your own home, the phone cradled against your ear. only this time, you know exactly what will happen if you don’t get help.

this is not a battle you can win yourself.

kicking to the top, you break through the water and cough, shaking your head. tears cloud your vision when you open your eyes, but the liquid that’s caught in your eyelashes disguises them, and for that you’re thankful. roger bobs beside you, a grin on his face, looking much too pleased with himself and his antics. without a second thought, you reach for him.

“roger, i can’t swim,” you say.

his face falls. “oh.” he blinks then, realization striking as you grab onto his shoulders. “fuck, [y/n]. i’m sorry.”

clinging to him, you wrap your arms around his chest, your legs around his waist. you rest your cheek against the back of his neck and sigh, inhaling deeply. “i tried to tell you,” you whisper.

beneath the water, his hand curls around the skin of your ankle. he squeezes, and it’s all the apology you need.

the band stays in the pool for entirely too long. freddie starts talking about the next album, and the other boys chime in, clamoring for their opinions to be heard over the others. despite their drunken state, music brings a sense of clarity to their speech and thought. it’s their life’s work and something about which they care deeply. there’s no denying that. even when brian tries his hand at a backwards flip and freddie challenges john to a diving contest, they are always thinking, always working, toward their next goal. you admire them for that.

roger remains steady where he stands. you cling to him like a barnacle, even though you just as easily could remove yourself and find a place where your feet touch solid ground. he feels nice, though. his body is a comfort against yours, and as the business talk continues, your head lolls to the side on his shoulder, a gentle smile on your lips.

you could get used to this.

at some point, veronica complains about her aching back and drags john from the pool. they are the first to leave, but brian and chrissie soon follow. you aren’t sure if you want to go, if you want the evening to end. if it means roger will go back to ignoring you, shoving you aside, you think you could stay in this pool until your skin wilted and dripped off your bones.

“we’d better go, love,” roger whispers.

you know he’s right.

“yeah.” you try to keep the disappointment from your voice.

he moves to the side of the pool, and you heave yourself over the edge. your dress is heavy, weighed down by the absorbed water. you wring out the skirt as best you can, but until you can give it a proper wash and dry, it’s really no use. gooseflesh breaks out on your arms where the cool air hits, and you shiver.

roger appears behind you, turns you gently with a hand to the shoulder, and lifts a fluffy white towel. “here. i found these.”

“oh!” you move to take the towel from his grasp. “thank you.”

“i’ve got it.” with a smile—a boyish, gentle sort of smile—roger unfurls the towel and wraps it around your shoulders. he tugs the corners beneath your chin and laughs through a short breath. “comfy?”

you nod, pressing your face against the warm fabric.

“you look like a marshmallow.”

lifting your mouth from behind the towel, you tilt your head with an impish grin. “you once told me i looked like an angel. so, which is it? angel or marshmallow?”

“oh, angel for sure.” he thumbs a finger over the end of your nose. “you always look like an angel.”

you roll your eyes and hope the action does not expose the sudden flutter in your chest. “you’re just saying that ‘cause you’re drunk.”

he shakes his head. “no. i mean it.”

he looks at you for a long time. you look at him for just as long. the unease cadence of your breath, the way his breath whistles through his nose, the lap of the pool against the tiled walls—it all sounds so loud to your ears, though nothing can compare to the beating of your heart. it fills your entire body: bump bump, bump bump, bump bump. your cheeks feel hot with blush, and you finally look away, casting your eyes to the floor. you wiggle your bare feet against the tiled floor; roger wiggles his toes back.

“we should go home,” you say.

“yeah.”

roger pays an attendant to ferry you home, and the drive leaves your entire body close to overheating.

the back seat of his car feels strangely intimate compared to the front seat, but that might just be your imagination. surely, roger didn’t sit so close to you on purpose. surely, his hand isn’t pressed against your leg because he wants it to be. his car is just… cramped.

“did you have fun tonight?” you break the silence, but when you do, your voice sounds strange—slightly strangled, nervous, earthy—and you wish you’d remained quiet. you continue toying with a loose thread on your coat, ignoring the way roger’s eyes traverse your profile.

“mhm. did you?”

you nod, but don’t look up.

from the driver’s seat, the attendant coughs, and your gaze shifts.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

chrissie’s words of earlier surface in your mind: you should tell him about the phone call. it’s only right.

twisting, you look to your right, meet roger’s eyes, and promptly lose all sense of direction. his face is so near, his mouth parted, eyes hooded, cheeks flushed. your throat runs dry, but you can’t look away.

“roger–”

“hmm?” his lips tighten, but his smile is just as sly as it had been the moment before he kissed you in front of the reporters. the touch still lingers on your mouth, but you will the memory away.

“there’s something i should—”

his fingers sift through a lock of your hair, and he moves his head almost in a nuzzling sort of gesture. you swallow hard. “i was wrong about you,” he whispers. when did his voice get so raspy?

“what?”

“i was wrong to judge you,” he says. his hand moves from your hair to the side of your neck, one long finger tracing the lines of your skin. “to be honest, i thought you were some cheap girl looking for a way into my bed, but i was wrong. you’re more than that.”

“what—” deep inhale. “what am i, then?”

his lips quirk upward. “my wife.”

hard exhale.

his mouth claims yours, and you don’t fight him. you melt against him, his chest pressed against yours in the narrow space of the car. you’re vaguely aware that a driver sits not two feet away, more than able to hear the way roger pulls a soft whimper from behind your lips and the rustle of clothes as you both scrabble for any exposed skin. but you don’t really care. you’re drunk off of roger, and have been since you met him. it’s his looks, yes, but tonight—tonight you saw him in his element. you heard him laugh and saw him smile and preened under his attention. you would go to hades and back to live in a world shaped just like tonight, every bit of it.

roger can’t keep his hands off you as you make your way from the sidewalk to the front stoop. his hands roam your body, skimming every inch, squeezing the parts he seems to like most. you giggle like young lovers experiencing one another for the first time, and maybe that’s because you are.

when you drop the front door key because you’re too focused on returning roger’s eager kiss, it doesn’t seem to matter. you just stand on the stoop and kiss beneath the light of the moon a little longer.

when you finally get the door open and his palm hits your ass at the same time, you squeal, and he dissolves into laughter.

when he fumbles with the hallway light because he’s too focused on getting your coat off, you tell him to forget it. you don’t need the light anyway.

halfway down the hall, limbs and lips tangled, the phone rings.

you laugh as you peel yourself from his grasp. he puckers his lower lip in protest.

“i’ll be just a minute,” you say, lifting the phone from the receiver. he sticks his tongue out, but then sheds his shirt, leaving it on the kitchen floor as he slips into the bedroom. you bite the edge of your thumb as you watch him go, your head as muddled as creamy soup.

someone clears their throat on the other end of the line.

“oh, sorry. hello?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

cold dread extinguishes any joy lingering in your chest at the sound of the sickeningly smooth voice. 

your fingers curl tight around the phone. “who is this?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

angry tears spring to your eyes as you scoot to stare out the window over the sink. nothing but darkness meets your eyes, but still you try in vain to search for an answer in the inky blackness. “i said: who is this?” your voice cracks, but you push forward. “how did you get this number?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

“i swear i calling the fucking police if you keep this up!”

a beat of hesitation then: “what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

with a helpless groan, you slam the phone down for the second time in one day. your fingers creak as you let go and step back, chest heaving. your skin feels slimy—slimy with roger’s lingering touch, slimy with the possibility that someone had been watching you kiss your husband, slimy with the possibility that someone could be watching you now.

you don’t stop and admire roger, clad only in his boxers, as you make your way to the en suite bathroom. you can’t stand to look at him, to know that somewhere someone cares for him so much they would take to harassing you. god, it makes you want to vomit.

you don’t bother with the bathroom door so intent are you at getting in the shower and scrubbing your slimy skin raw. you struggle with the zipper at the top of your spine, the tears hovering over your eyes threatening to spill over if you can’t be rid of your soaked clothing. you stamp your foot with a grunt and drop your hands, hanging your head in defeat.

roger’s soft chuckle sounds from the doorway. you don’t turn to look at him.

your back stiffens when he undoes the zipper, the pads of his fingers pressing along your shoulder blades, your ribs, the small of your back.

“that eager, huh?” he presses a wet kiss to the curve of your shoulder.

you want him; you really do. there’s some part of you that wants to drag him into the shower and work out your fears with the aid of his body against yours. but you won’t do that. you won’t use him, not when he confessed he thinks you better than that.

you twist to face him, holding the dress against your chest. “rog, i…” you place your hand on his smooth chest, feel the small hairs peppering his collarbone. “you’re drunk,” you finally say. “you’re drunk and you should go to bed.”

he smirks and pushes his hips against yours. “so? you’re drunk too.”

you shake your head. “no, not anymore.” you push him away gently. “believe me, roger, i want nothing more than to go to bed with you but—”

he plays with a lock of hair beside your face, and your desire to resist him weakens. “but?”

“i won’t do it while you’re drunk. besides, you’ll be over this by morning. you’ll go back to not wanting me. so i won’t do it—not while you’re drunk.”

with a huff, he lets you go, but not without kissing you once more. a traitorous tear slides down your cheek, and your throat seizes with emotion. somewhere in the back of your clouded mind, you wonder if you love him. or, if at least you are on the edge of loving him.

but it doesn’t matter. you’ll be gone in a year, and he will move on to someone else, someone strong enough to withstand his rabid fans.

he pulls away first and kisses your temple. “goodnight, angel,” he whispers.

you wrap your arms around your stomach and, once stood beneath the hot water of the shower, let the sound of the creaking pipes drown out the sound of your crying.

roger is gone before you wake the next morning.

he leaves you a note on the kitchen island, scrawled in his plain script: “angel, i’m hungover now, not drunk. i’d still like you in my bed. – rog”

the note should send a thrill to your stomach, but it manifests itself in a ball of dread instead.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

it’s heaven, but the price is hell.

you crumple the note and toss it in the bin, jumping when the phone rings. you hesitate, your gaze locked on the inanimate object that has come to haunt your dreams.

eventually, the phone stops ringing, but the shrill sound echoes in your head as you go about the day.

after the second phone call, tension becomes your constant companion. the days pass, and you withdraw into yourself, scared by the slightest sound, the never-ending line of cars outside the front window, and roger’s growing interest.

he seems to like you now that he knows you. he makes you laugh, asks you questions, even goes so far as to help you research university entrance exams.

but when he comes home from the studio, your stomach takes to twisting with apprehension as you wonder if your faceless friend watched him drive home and wonder further if your faceless friend can see roger kiss the side of your neck.

you try not to push him away. his attention is what you’ve wanted all along, and, though the romantic turn of events was certainly unplanned, he does make your knees weak and your head giddy like a schoolgirl’s.

still, the phone calls persist. it’s not every night and every day. you can’t trace the caller’s pattern because there is none. you never know who will be on the other end of the line. it could be roger calling during his lunch break as he is wont to do; it could be the university to which you’ve applied; or it could be them, the phantom who chills the blood in your veins.

there’s a pad of paper tucked beneath your side of the bed. the words of your faceless friend are scrawled across the page in frenzied handwriting, the handwriting of a madwoman.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

did he buy you those earrings?

will he ask john to help you study for the maths entrance exam?

you should stop answering the phone; you know you should. but each time the phone rings, you respond like a pavlovian dog. you rush to answer, to frantically write down the day’s comment just in case there’s some sliver of information that might shed light on your faceless friend’s identity.

the caller is a woman; that much you know. her voice is deep and gravelly, but she’d referenced herself as the better woman for roger before. she seems to cling to the idea that you will leave him and the position of roger taylor’s wife will fall to her. if only to spite her, you will remain married to roger until your dying day.

you should tell roger too; you know you should.

but he’s happy.

when you first met him, he was sullen, dragging his tail between his legs like a scolded pup after the montreal debacle. it took a while, but you see him now for his true self. he’s carefree in a grounded sort of way, sold out for his music and the lifestyle it affords him. he’s gentle and kind and surprisingly considerate. he picks up the groceries when you ask it of him; he cleans the dishes from supper without complaint. he doesn’t pressure you for anything more than a make-out session on the couch when the lights are low and a record spins on the turntable. you would go further, but you can’t—not right now. he doesn’t ask any questions.

it would break you to tell him about the phone calls, and you can’t bring yourself to do it. each morning, you imagine his crestfallen face. you imagine the anger and the shouting and him calling the authorities and—

it’s easier for him—for everybody—if you just stay quiet.

besides, you’ll be gone in six months.

one evening, after dinner at an expensive restaurant, you let roger to take you to bed. he’d looked so pretty in the candlelight, and he’d listened to you talk about your hopes and dreams for the future. you think you fall in love with him when he drags you onto the bed and whispers sweet praises in your ear the whole night long.

when you wake the next morning, he is still there, and you snuggle into his chest. you breathe him in, and it’s bar soap from the shower and dried sweat and lingering cologne. his arms circle your back, squeezing you tighter.

“mornin’, angel,” he mumbles.

for a moment, you don’t respond. you keep your eyes closed and think back to yesterday.

there’d been no phone call. a blessed reprieve from three days in a row of randomly timed messages. roger had held you, and he holds you still. he is a comfort amidst your turbulent sea.

you should tell him. he can handle it. you’re tired of running from him.

rising to your palm, you meet roger’s gaze. he stares at you through his lashes, a sleepy smile on his mouth. he lifts a hand to cradle your face, and his thumb skims your cheekbone.

“how come you get a halo every morning and i don’t?”

you ignore his compliment before the bravery rushing through your veins dissipates. “rog, there’s something i haven’t told you.”

“yeah? is it about the freckle by your left ass-check?”

gasping, you slap roger’s chest. though he laughs, a red handprint remains in the center of his sternum, and he clutches his skin in pain. once settled, he apologizes and promises to behave.

deep inhale.

“about a month or two ago, i started—”

the phone on the bedside table cuts you off with its sharp bell-like ring.

your stomach plummets to your feet.

your eyes widen as roger holds up a finger and reaches for the earpiece.

he lifts it to his ear. “hello?”

some part of you hopes it’s your faceless friend. roger could deal with her himself. the other part of you prays it’s just a wrong number or john or—

“yes, fred, i know.”

hard exhale.

you slump to the side, leaning your weight against roger’s hip. thank heaven.

roger’s eyes slide to you, and he grins, winking. he squeezes the point of your chin between his forefinger and thumb, his eyes locked on yours as he nods and hums in response to freddie on the other end of the line.

“no, we won’t be late,” roger says. “yes, she’s coming. i promise i won’t forget.” he leans closer to the bedside table in his effort to end the conversation. “okay, fred. yes, i will.” finally, he heaves a sigh. “oh, for fuck’s sake, fuck off! i’m trying to woo my wife, so scram!”

“now,” he says, once the earpiece is on the base. “where were we?”

tugging on the back of your neck, he closes the distance between his mouth and yours. even with a hint of morning breath, you dissolve in his capable hands. he kisses you earnestly, and you struggle to remember what it was you wanted to tell him. he has this way with his mouth and his tongue and his hands that makes you forget everything but the feeling of him.

pulling back a moment later, he mumbles against your mouth: “what was it you wanted to tell me?”

you blink rapidly. “i—” damn, he looks so happy, glowing with youth and perhaps an inkling of love. you press your palm to his cheek then shake your head. “never mind. it can wait.”

he cocks his head to the side. “you sure?”

“mhm.”

“you remember the movie thing tonight, right?” he asks as he slides from the bed, drawing up his sweats from the floor and padding to the window. “that’s what fred called about.”

he throws the curtains open. the morning sun shines through, piercing every hidden corner, and your heart trips in your chest. your hands shake as you lift one of the bed sheets to cover your naked chest.

someone could be watching.

roger grimaces. “oh, shit, sorry, angel.” he tosses you his shirt from the floor, which you gratefully tug over your head. “anyway, tron, you know? we’re supposed to go to the premiere. something about flash gordon and—���

“i remember.”

“good. wear something nice because i don’t give a fuck about this movie, and i’d rather be looking at you anyway.” he smirks as he presses his palms against the mattress and leans in for another kiss.

you oblige him without hesitation.

“gotta go,” he says, pulling away only to firmly kiss you once more. “be ready by six, okay?”

you nod, and he leaves.

the majority of the day, you putter about the house. there’s chores to do—laundry and bills to catch up on and research for university admissions. it’s domestic work, mind-numbingly dull and repetitive. it leaves far too much space for your thoughts to run wild.

you admonish yourself for once more failing to tell roger of your faceless friend. you’d had the moment, and you’d blown it. with his unreliable schedule, there is no telling when you’ll have the chance to sit him down for a serious conversation again. you consider going to jim beach for help, but know once roger hears wind of it, he will fly off the handle because you didn’t come to him first. perhaps rightfully so, too.

you resolve that until you can find another peaceful moment, you will continue to suffer through it. it’s a step in the right direction, though. at least now, you have plans to tell him.

by five-forty-five, you are ready for the event. you sit in the living room, gnawing at your lower-lip as your leg bounces in anticipation. you haven’t gone anywhere with roger since the charity function earlier in the year. your faceless friend will surely be watching tonight, and already you feel sweat gather along your underarms.

roger unlocks the door and sticks his head into the living room upon his arrival. “car’s running. ready to go?”

you lift your handbag from the floor, nodding as you make your way to his side. roger stops you with a flat hand against your stomach. he bends to catch your eyes.

“you okay?”

“yes,” you say, but your voice sounds too rushed and eager even to your own ears.

he doesn’t hassle you for a more illuminative response. he just leads you to the car, opens your door, and makes his way to the theater, foot hard on the gas pedal.

as soon as you see the carpet—red this time—stretched along the sidewalk leading to the movie theater, bile rises in your throat. you reach for roger’s arm and squeeze tight. his head whips to the side.

“roger, i don’t think i can do this,” you breathe.

he frowns. “what do you mean?”

“it’s just that i’ve been—”

he pulls the car to the side. an usher opens the door, sound and light and chaos breaking the comforting quiet of the ride. your eyes flutter shut; you grit your teeth.

“[y/n], what is it?” roger’s voice is low, on the edge of irritation.

this is not the time. yet why do you feel like you’re going to pass out if you don’t—

“mr. taylor?” the usher prompts.

purging the emotions clawing at the front of your mind, you push roger’s shoulder and avoid his searching gaze. “nothing. go on! i’m right behind you.”

roger huffs as he slides from the car, but he dutifully offers his hand to aid you onto the red carpet. as he did before, he leads you toward the theater doors, stopping at the appropriate moments to pose for photographs. you hold on to the back of his jacket so tightly your knuckles crack. your eyes scan the crowd in search of your faceless friend. you will know her when you see her. she is a part of you now, like a demon on your shoulder.

roger rubs his hand up and down your back in a comforting gesture and leans to whisper in your ear. “you feel a stiff as a board,” he says. “what is it?”

you shake your head and nudge him further down the carpet. “we can talk about it later.”

“is it something i’ve—”

“no, roger. it’s not you.”

he studies your face a moment longer before nodding and returning his smile to the crowd.

near the entrance to the theater, a gaggle of girls wave their hands in an attempt to grab roger’s attention. he glances at you, and you nod, backing away to allow him one of the moments he so enjoys.

but one of the girls calls out your name. you lift your eyes to stop tracing the intricate weaving of the red carpet and stare at the girl in question until roger has to drag you over with a laugh. the girl shoves a newspaper in your face, your wedding announcement crinkled with affectionate wear-and-tear. she asks for your autograph, and you chuckle, feeling rather ridiculous as you scrawl your name across the page with a fat green marker.

it happens before you have time to react.

your head is bent as you sign the girl’s newspaper, your attention diverted from scanning the crowd for your faceless friend. but you feel her when she arrives, sense her eyes on your neck, and her fingers reaching for the sleeve of your dress. you have time enough to turn and catch sight of her long fingernails descending upon your cheek, but not time enough to stop her.

you scream more out of fear than pain as her nails scrape your face. truly, it does not hurt, though blood does begin to trickle down your chin and along the column of your throat.

it’s just that she’s there, before your very eyes, and she’s much smaller than you imagined. yet her eyes are dark with envy, and her nails are sharp. you recognize her labored breathing—deep inhale, sharp exhale—as she tries to move backwards and disappear within the crowd before she can be seen. you cannot look away from her, even when roger grabs your shoulders and wrenches you away from the iron gate. he’s shouting in your ear, cradling your uninjured cheek, but everything sounds like you’re underwater.

her face—round and childlike in its innocence—does not match the picture you’d created of her in your mind. she does not resemble the evil witch of your childhood fairy tales. she’s just a child, a little girl with a heart full of love for someone she cannot have.

your faceless friend is pointed out by the girl with the newspaper, and someone—maybe theater security, maybe queen security, maybe a good samaritan—drags her away.

roger grips your chin harder than he should considering the circumstances, but it brings your attention back to him. his eyes are ablaze with fury, and you suddenly feel the urge to cry.

“are you all right?” he demands. “are you hurt anywhere else?”

only my pride, you think.

“no,” you manage with a shake of your head. “no.”

“come on.” he slips his arm around your waist and pushes your head into the curve of his neck, away from prying eyes and flashing cameras. “we’re going home.”

the trip home is silent. your head moves back and forth across the passenger window, in time with the bumps and dips and curves of the road. there’s a fast-food napkin pressed against your cheek to stem the blood. you aren’t sure if it helps. roger keeps his hand firm on your thigh.

once inside the house, he forces you to sit in the middle of the bed as he scurries to retrieve the first aid kit. while he roots around in the bathroom, muttering to himself when he can’t find what he’s looking for fast enough, you strip yourself of your dress and return his old t-shirt over your head. you lift the collar to your nose and inhale his scent. when you draw the collar away, crimson blood and fresh tears stain the fabric. you sigh.

“fuckin’ hell.” roger drops to sit in front of you, his legs skewed to the side. a white, plastic box sits in his lap, and when he opens it, the contexts spill onto the bed sheets. “i’ve had this thing for ages. i think brian got it for me when i moved in.”

his hand returns to your chin; only his touch is gentle now. he looks over your wound, frowning at the sight.

“this is gonna sting, angel,” he warns.

it does. the antiseptic hurts, and you wince, but he keeps you from drawing away, his grip on your chin firm. he unwraps a butterfly bandage and presses it over the shallow scratch on your face. then he shakes his head, his face drawn tight.

“what is it you weren’t telling me?”

“there is—was this girl… and she kept calling, saying things.” you twist and unearth the pad of paper from under the bed. rubbing your eye, you hand it to him and watch his face darken as he reads the words.

he looks up, and you can’t bear to see the anger—the anger directed at you—in his gaze. “why didn’t you tell me?”

your first instinct is to shrug, to obfuscate, but he deserves the truth.

“you never wanted a wife,” you say. “you certainly didn’t want a wife who brought a stalker into the house. i figured—” deep inhale. “i figured i could live with it until our year was up.”

“oh, baby.” roger presses his forehead to yours. he cups your untainted cheek. “fucking up in montreal was the best thing that ever happened to me. it brought you to me, didn’t it?”

“you’re just saying that ‘cause—”

“no.” he draws back and grabs both shoulders in his hands. “i mean it. i never was one for marriage. didn’t make sense. but i get it now. it’s about partnership, yeah, but it’s about more than that. it’s about trust, too.” he smiles softly, pressing his thumb against your lip. “it’s about affection.”

he goes quiet then removes his hands from your shoulders.

“i wish you would have trusted me.”

“i’m—”

“don’t apologize. this whole arrangement is weird, and i don’t blame you for keeping quiet. i just wish you would have told me so i could help you.”

you sigh, dropping your head. “what do you want, roger?”

he lifts your chin, and you are struck by the love so firmly etched in his eyes. it knocks the wind from your lungs, leaves you breathless.

“i want you to keep my last name,” he says.

“what?”

“you heard me: i want you keep my last name.”

tears flood your vision, but not for fear or worry or regret.

you begin to smile, but the skin of your cheek pulls tight, and you wince, touching your injury. “ow,” you mutter.

roger laughs and pulls your fingers away from the bandage. he kisses each knuckle then rubs the wedding band along your ring finger. “can we give each other another chance?” he asks. “can we forget all the assumptions and just be us? i think we started on the wrong foot and somewhere along the way we switched—”

“yes.”

he stops mid-sentence, his brows drawing together in confusion. “what?”

“i said yes. i’ll keep your last name. i want your last name, roger taylor.”

he grins, and the happiness in every line on his face outshines even the sun’s rays. “god, you’re perfect.” he kisses you hard, and you laugh as you drop against the pillows, pulling him with you. he stops attacking your neck with his lips long enough to prop himself up and stare down at you. “but don’t you ever pull something like that again! if someone starts nagging you, tell me first thing. promise?”

you nod, stunned by his firm tone.

“say it.”

“i promise.”

he smooths the hair on your forehead, and your stomach somersaults to watch him examine you so openly “good girl,” he mumbles before lowering his mouth to yours again.

you lose yourself in him. he loses himself in you. somewhere along the way, you find one another, and all is bliss.

in the morning, legs tangled in the sheets and steady rain pelting the window, roger adjusts his hold on your waist. he’s still asleep, his chest rising and falling in time with his gentle breath. you pull his arm tight around you and smile into your pillow.

your cheek is still sore, and you’re sure there’s some poor nun who remains scarred for life after witnessing roger’s montreal incident.

but this morning you cannot find it within yourself to feel bothered by your faceless friend, nor by the scarred nun. indeed, you think, you should write them each a thank you card, because in a funny sort of way, they brought you to your husband. in a funny sort of way, they gave you love of your life. and for that, you are indebted to them.

you twist at the sound of roger’s yawn. taking his face in your hands, you smile at him. “good morning, husband,” you whisper.

he grins back. “good morning, wife.”

now this—this you could get used to.

taglist (italicized handles wouldn’t work): @im-an-adult-ish​ @bluewillowmom​ @deakygurl @aprilaady @dancingdiscofloof​ @six-bloodyminutes​

[mirkwoodshewolf]

Give love one more chance; Gwilym Lee x reader

*Author’s note*

Hello everyone well I have yet another request that came from my wattpad account and this time the request is all about our lovely mini-Bri Gwilym Lee. Now as a warning THERE IS HEAVY MENTIONS OF CHEATING (not on Gwil’s part but it’s for the back story) and due to that there is angst but I PROMISE FLUFF IS THROUGHOUT MOST OF THIS STORY esp. once the ending comes around. So I hope you all enjoy this little fic and until the next update my darlings :)

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things​

@psychosupernatural​

@waddles03​

@ixchel-9275​

@georgesgentlyweepingguitar​

@queendeakyy​

@geek-and-proud​

@simonedk​

@kairosfreddie​

__________________________________________________________

I was walking around the main stage set where they would be filming the most iconic scene ever, the Live Aid sequence. I was just in awe at how the stage designers were following everything by the book, from the brick wall patterns, to the posters that hung on them at the time, even some of the paint chipping away.

For those that are curious, the name’s (y/n) (l/n). I’ve been on the road with Queen ever since they started working alongside my best friend, Adam Lambert.  Yep, Adam and I go way back since middle school as a matter of fact.  We were both the awkward kids who no one really paid attention too and loved classic rock, esp. Queen.  When Adam told me he was planning to audition for American Idol, I just couldn’t let him go on alone.

I was his big supporter and went to every live performance cheering him from the sidelines, even helping his team organize and making sure he had everything he needed to his performances.  And even though he was a runner up, he was still a winner in my book.  Then when he came out to me as well as the world about his sexuality, that didn’t change my perspective of him.  I stuck by him because we were the Odd-kids through thick and thin.

Then by 2014 he met up once again with Queen a few years after performing with them back during his season of American Idol and that’s when they offered Adam to be the new leading man for their concerts and thus Queen+Adam Lambert was born.

And then just two years later, Queen officially began to project that was the film ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’  Adam had invited me along since he had a small little cameo to play and he said that I could potentially have a small role in the film too, but I turned to role down.  I just—never really fit well with a camera’s attention on me.

But here I am as support for Adam as well as Brian and Roger.  Those two men have really become role models and sorta like second dad’s to me in a way. When life got to stressful on the road; Brian always took me aside and the two of us would look at the SaveMe animal videos he had on his website, while Roger was the one with the good therapeutic music to listen to, he even got me into some bands that I never really had the chance to listen too.  Even his former solo band’s ‘The Cross’ music.

“Oh my god. This is beautiful.” It was then I bumped into someone’s back.

“Oh sorry my fault.” We both said at the same time but when I looked up to see just who it was that I had bumped into, I felt like I needed to do a double take because I swear to god I thought I was looking at Brian May at the time of Live Aid.

“Wow you’re gorgeous.” I thought I had said in my head but apparently my lips just had to voice it out loud to him. Embarrassingly I hid my face but I heard the Brian look-alike softly chuckle and he said.

“It’s fine love, I’m flattered, really. Guess I really look the part don’t I?”

“Yeah.” I nervously giggled.

“I’m Gwilym. And as you can probably tell by the wig, I’m playing Brian May in the film.”

“(Y/n). I’m uhh—Adam’s best friend.” God could this be any more humiliating.

“Oh so you’re the one Brian and Roger told us about. The clever roadie.”

“Well I wouldn’t call myself clever. They just flatter me because I work for them.”

“No, no, no. Brian especially talks about how you’ve been able to work on fixing all the AMPS that break down during rehearsal, or knowing when exactly his red special needs a tuning or new string set.” I blushed and that’s when he said, “Oh I’ve gone and rambled making you uncomfortable. I’m so sorry (y/n).”

“It’s fine Gwilym. So is this your first acting gig? Or have you been doing this for a while?”

“I guess you could call me a child actor. My first gig was in a show called Animal Ark, I think I was 13 years old when I auditioned for it. Then after getting my education I dived fully into the acting industry with a few television shows and a few movies. My recent big project was when I was in Midsomer murders, have you heard that show?”

“I think so. My dad was always into British tv more than American tv. Even though he was born in Minnesota.”

“I was only on for only 3 series before I went into some other projects.”

“Well I’d love to see the show sometime. And you said it was called midtown murders?”

“Midsomer, actually.”

“Oh right sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

And that’s kinda what we ended up doing.  We just sat there and talked right up until it was time to start filming.  I wished him good luck and as the actors got into place, I stood beside Roger, Brian’s daughter Emily and Peter “Phoebe” Freestone.  Shortly after the boys entered the stage much like Queen did 31 years Brian came up and sat down beside me and that’s when Rami, who was playing Freddie, set down at the piano and the guys all began to play the full Live Aid set.

As I looked at each of them I knew each of these guys had done their homework.  And seeing them in full costume and shtick, it was like I was actually there at the concert seeing them.  Of course my eyes were especially focused on Gwil who played Brian’s red special with such ease and finesse, it was like I was really watching Brian during the time of Live Aid.

Of course being a Queen fan, I couldn’t help but interact with each song they did, the double handclap for Radio Gaga and We will rock you, following along to the Aye-oh’s, headbanging to Hammer to fall, dancing to Crazy little thing called love, and swaying to We are the champions.

After doing several rehearsals, Dexter finally decided to film the guys for real this time.  And even though it was cold and the guys were probably exhausted, they still managed to perform the whole show once more with even more energy and enthusiasm when the cameras were really recording.  By the end of it all, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.

When I finally came backstage after the guys and some of the crew congratulated them on a job well done, I don’t know why it happened but I couldn’t help but fling myself towards Gwilym and embrace him.

“Seems our Brian look-alike has found his little groupie.” Teased Rami using his Freddie voice.  At that point I backed away and released him.

“Sorry. I just—got a little excited. Seeing you four up there it was like—finally seeing all four members of Queen back together for the first time in a long time.”

“We’re glad you loved it (y/n).” Gwilym said with a soft smile that made butterflies tickle my stomach.

“So you said you love Queen? What’s your favorite song of theirs?” asked the John Deacon look alike, damn much like Gwil, he definitely looked like Deacy, I can see why the casting directors chose him, it was like he was his son or something.

“Oh god well don’t tell them this but it’s definitely Somebody to love.”

“I like her already. We match!” he raised his hand up for a high five which I complied to give him as he introduced himself as Joe Mazzello.

Pretty soon I knew the other two actor’s names, Ben Hardy who was playing Roger, and Rami Malek who was playing the legend himself Freddie Mercury.

*Brian’s POV*

As I watched our genius little roadie chat up with the actors playing us, my mind kept going back to that hug she gave my look-alike.

“I know you saw that right, I mean I maybe blind as a fucking bat but I know my eyes didn’t deceive me on what I just saw.” Roger said as he came up to me.

“Your eyes do not lie Rog. I saw what you saw.”

“You know our girl doesn’t just hug any random guy.”

“Yep. And that shy little gleam in her eyes, dare I say I think our mini-Deacy is in love with my look alike.”

“Not to say I’m happy for her, but I feel like she could’ve chose better.” Roger teased.

“Oh shut it you old tart, you’re just jealous she didn’t pick your actor.”

“Nothing against yours, cause bloody hell it’s like I’m looking at you 30 years ago over there.” I softly chuckle. Yeah they definitely casted the perfect actor to play me, and seeing Gwilym with the wig on its…..mind boggling (although I had to slightly adjust the wig a bit) but other than that he was perfect. “So, shall we go and confront her about it?”

“Now hold on Rog, you know how she gets when she’s being fully confronted. She’ll completely shut down. Let’s—wait it out. See what happens, and then we’ll see if this is something to discuss with her. But it’ll be on my terms.”

“You just wanna suck the joy out of everything.” I shook my head at Roger’s statement before turning back towards (y/n) and Gwilym.  Seeing the two of them talking and laughing with each other warmed my heart.  Because ever since we’ve met her, (y/n) has been the best roadie we’ve ever had.  She’s always on top of every sound and light equipment we’ve got, she knows how Adam likes his speakers to sound and she’s even clever enough to see when I need a new string set on my guitars or when Roger’s kit needs a tuning because of a loose screw that might’ve happened while unloading.

But for whatever reason she sometimes puts herself down, claiming that she’s not all what we’ve both told her she is. That she’d rather just remain invisible, and I can understand some of her pain because I’ve been there myself with my own self-doubt and insecurities.  So I hope that if her and Gwilym do somehow manage to form a relationship, he could probably help her see that she is more than she seems.

*My POV*

After a couple weeks of being on set, Gwil and I were definitely spending a lot of time together and every time we got the chance to hang out, we’d talk about our lives or love of Queen.

“So you and Adam Lambert really knew each other that long?” he asked me.

“Yep. It just happened one day during lunch, I was the new kid in town and I feared no one wanted to hang out with me so I ended up eating in the courtyard by myself when Adam, all donned up with his green dyed stripped bangs introduced himself and we’ve been friends ever since.”

“So he was even extravagant even back then.”

“Yep. Then when we found out we both had a love for Queen, he refused to let me out of his life afterwards, cause I was the only friend he had that liked or even knew who Queen were.”

“Wait are you serious?”

“Dead serious. It’s hard to find people to talk about classic rock with when all they cared about was the rap music or Britney Spears. Or spice girls.”

“Wow.”

“So how did you come to know Queen’s music?”

“You’ll have to thank my old brother. He had basically almost every single Queen record there was, one day I heard him play Bohemian Rhapsody and I was curious. And I guess you could say the rest is history.”

“Well then your brother gets an A+ from me for good music taste.”

“So how is it touring with Queen and Adam?”

“Well I’ve toured with Adam for so long it just feels like a normal hang out day for us. Once he got the offer to tour with Queen themselves it was like not only meeting my role models but they became family to us. Brian and I have a common love for animals, so much so that I’ve become a daily donor to his SaveMe organization.”

“Hey Gwilym. They’re ready to start filming.” One of the producers came up.

“Well that’s my cue, see you after?”

“You bet.” We stood up and I went ahead and sat down at one of the chairs and watched as the guys did the performance for a Japan concert.  I’ll admit even with the 70’s silk/satin angel shirt that he was wearing, he still looked pretty handsome and he sure was a brilliant guitarist if I do say so myself.

“I see what you’re doing.” Adam’s sing-song voice whispered in my ear.  I came out of my daze and whispered to him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh don’t play dumb with me dearie. I have eyes I’m not blind.” I shook my head and went back to paying attention to the guys now doing Brian’s song ’39.  I clapped along with the song and softly sung the words (cause out of every song Bri had written, this was definitely my #1 fav.)  When Dexter called cut, I suddenly felt myself being dragged away and soon found myself in a closet of sorts.

“Adam what the fuck is the matter with you?”

“Well would you rather talk about this out there where everyone can hear, potentially your secret lover too?” I immediately covered his mouth with my hand and I hissed at him as I shushed him.

“Shh! Shh! Speak louder why don’t you I don’t think they heard all the way from Glasgow!” I then retracted my hand in disgust as I felt him actually lick my palm. “Why must you do that?”

“Cause I know it annoys you.” He shrugged.

“You can be such an asshole sometimes Lambert.”

“Yeah but you always stick around me dearie.” He said smugly as he leaned up against the wall of the closet crossing his arms. “Now as I was saying back there, you’re really starting to get attached to Brian’s mini-him aren’t you?”

“No!” I snapped abruptly.  He quirked his brow at me before I cleared my throat and said. “No, we’re just friends is all Adam. In fact if you keep going down this path, I might just replace you with him.”

“That hurts (n/n), that really hurts.” He mocked in pain as he placed his hand over his heart and gave me the puppy dog pout. “But girl c’mon for realzies, what’s up with you?”

“Nothing is up, okay can you just drop it? Now if you’ll excuse me Gwilym and I are due for a coffee break.” I walked out of the closet and stormed out trying to get my mind off of what Adam was hinting.  As I was walking, I soon came up to Gwilym and when he saw me he smiled and I tried to calm my anger down as I approached him calmly.

“You okay (y/n)?”

“Yeah, yeah why would you say that?”

“Just—for a moment it looked like you were pissed at something.”

“Oh nothing you need to worry about, so you free for some coffee and catering? I know you’ve got a long day ahead of you, might not be a bad idea to have a good lunch.”

“Great because I had to skip breakfast when my alarm failed to wake me up this morning.”

“Well then we better hurry. We need food stat, can’t have one of the four Queen members perform on an empty belly.” We then raced over towards the catering and got us some food and coffee.

When we got it and was now walking through the studio where they were now setting up the Madison Square Garden set just opposite of where the Japan stage was earlier this morning.

“Wait so that actually happened?” asked Gwilym.

“He tries to deny it and blames it on the poor lighting the camera had but don’t be fooled. His son Rufus told me the whole story of how it happened.”

“I can’t believe he made his hair green.”

“His hair was already blonde as it was, he’s lucky it didn’t make his hair bleach blonde.”

“Well that’s not as funny as Joe thinking he’ll be able to wash out that perm he got.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa he thinks what now?”

“Yeah Joe thinks that in the next week or two it’s gonna grow out and go back to normal.”

“Oh my god Joey!” I laughed.

“Like just the other night we were all out in the pub the four of us and he was chatting away to a girl with his Yankees cap on. So I went up and flipped the hat off and said as I pointed to his hair ‘he’s got a perm’!” I couldn’t help but laugh hysterically.

“You are so bad.”

“Yeah. Bad wingman but good friend.” I continued laughing which turned into giggles.

“Ahh Joey, Joey, Joey, Joey.”

“GAHH SON OF A BITCH!!!” we both heard someone call out.

“Uh-oh.” I said as Gwil and I looked at each other and set out stuff aside on a nearby table before racing across the studio and I asked. “What happened?”

“Damn circuits in these lights shocked me and now I can barely feel my hand anymore.” Said one of the light engineers.

“Okay, okay here let me see it.” I walked up to him and held his hand in both of mine.  There was some slight swelling but I thankfully no serious burn marks. “Well good news is, is that there’s no serious burn marks. But it is swollen red. I suggest some ice and rest for the rest of the day. And get a medic to check out your reflexes in case the shock might’ve nulled your muscles.”

“But we need another light technician to help us raise these lights for the Madison Square Garden set.” Said a female volunteer.

“You’re looking at your spare one. Besides I’ve spent my whole life with Roger and Brian to know how they want MSG to look. Now, what’s your name?” I turned to the guy who got shocked.

“Arnold.”

“Arnold, go see a medic about your injury and take the rest of the day off. Anyone asks or has a problem with it, send them my way, okay?”

“Okay, thank you.” He said with a slight smile before heading out to the medics trailer.

“Okay now what exactly are we dealing with here?” I asked the seven other light technicians.

“Well we’re trying to make sure all these lights intersect with each other so that they can change colors like they do at the real MSG. Arnold was working on the main circuit board to work the code in when it backfired and you heard what happened as the result.”

“Okay well first things first it could’ve been prevented if he were wearing gloves, rookie mistake.” I then took out my gloves that I always keep on me in my back pocket and put them on. “Goggles.” I said as I extended my arm out and someone handed me some spare goggles.  Once I had them on I proceeded to work.

I called out for various equipment pieces like the 4 in 1 Podger rachet, a Leatherman supertool, and some batteries. Once I had the main board opened I began working on finding the loose circuit that probably caused Arnold’s shocking surprise because that needed to be fixed immediately.

Using a mini-flashlight I managed to find the area and found the problem.

“Okay I see the problem. Can someone hold the flashlight for me?”

“I got it.” Said one of the female volunteers as she came up and took the flashlight from me and I went right to work on the wires, making sure they were tucked in correctly and un exposed.  It took some time but by the end of it all, I punched the code that was needed for the lights to turn on.

“There, that should do it.” I said as I took my gloves off and removed my goggles.

“Okay boys raise her up!” called the main lighting technician and soon the lights were raised up.  Then using his phone, he activated the lights and they soon began shining into a red and blue pattern that would go along with the orange, yellow and green pattern.  The light technicians clapped and thanked me for the assistance and when I turned to Gwil, he just had this awed look on his face.

“Sorry you had to see that. Whenever I hear a technical problem I just gotta jump in.”

“Well I’m glad you did. I was amazed to see how you were able to work all that out.”

“Oh it’s not that hard. All I had to do was just tighten the circuits and then replace the batteries while also—oh there I go again. My tech ramblings again, sorry if I’m boring you Gwilym you don’t need to hear all that.”

“No, no, no it’s genius. I mean back when I was doing theater in secondary and university, I never really had a good grasp on the tech theater side of it even though I was trying my best.”

“Not everyone does. I was the only one who took the class seriously back in high school. Everyone else rather just look at their magazines or porno books. Don’t ask me how they snuck it in.”

“Wow, well thankfully they had you to take it seriously.”

“Uh-huh.” I said sadly as I looked down and rubbed my wrist nervously.

“(Y/n)?”

“Hmm?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Just—thinking back.”

“Anything you’d…..like to share? I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”

“Thank Gwilym but I don’t wanna bore you with my life. C’mon let’s get back to our food before you’re needed on set again.” I said as I walked away and went back to my donuts and Cinnabons.  Gwil followed behind me and began to eat his celery and carrots as well as drinking his coffee, as we ate I tried my best to avoid eye contact with him up until I finished my things and tossed them in the bin before heading out.

Making an excuse that Bri and Rog had texted me saying that they wanted to talk about the lighting and sound for their next concert.

Later that night as everyone was packing up to do some of the outdoor scenes like Adam’s big cameo appearance, I found myself standing away from the set just staring up at the night sky.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I looked up to see Gwil coming by to sit beside me in the spare chair where Adam was just sitting at before he went to hair and makeup.

“Just—taking in the sky.” He looked up and he said.

“It’s a full moon out tonight.”

“Yep. The one time for a straight week where the tides are stronger and can sometimes have an effect on the human mind.”

“Quite the philosopher you are.”

“Well I did minor in it in college. My major was in electrical engineering.”

“So not only good with your hands but also a brilliant mind in philosophy as well. No wonder why Brian calls you the mini-Deacy.” I smiled briefly.

“The reason why I know about the full moon is because of him. He did give me a little lecture on astronomy. But I’d be lying if I didn’t have a fascination with space already. Just—never could understand the specific science talk it came with.”

“I hear yah. When I was a kid; my brother and I would go out to the backyard and we’d just look up at the stars and make as many pictures with them as we could. Sometimes we even stayed out all night. Worried my mum to no end.”

“I think it’d worry me too if my kids ended up staying outside in the cold night with no blankets or a tent to sleep in.” we turned to look at each other and once again Gwil had this awed look on his face, just like he did this afternoon. “What is it?”

“Nothing it’s just…..” he trailed off.

“Just what?”

“Your eyes.”

“M—my eyes?”

“They….they sparkle underneath the moonlight. Almost like they were two stars themselves.” I was speechless.  I felt my heart race and my face beginning to heat up.  I turned away probably blushing as red as an apple right now.  I felt Gwil’s hand gently go on top of mine, before intertwining them together which made me look up at him.  It was then I saw him lean closer towards me, his forehead pressing against mine while his nose gently brushed up against mine.

At this point I could hear my heart racing in my ears as the smell of his cologne sent me into a hypnotic state.  I felt his hand cup the side of my face as he faintly whispered.

“So beautiful.” But just before he could kiss me, Joe’s voice could be heard from a mile away.

“YO GWIL WHERE ARE YAH!? WE’RE ABOUT TO START FILMING!!!”

“If this is payback for the pub he’s so gonna get it.” I heard him mutter angrily.  He turned back towards me and he said, “Sorry love.”

“It’s okay.” I strained out. “Just, just, just, just go film your scenes for the night.” I said as I crossed my arms over me protectively and looked down.  I couldn’t look at him, I just couldn’t find the strength to do so.  I then heard him walk away and that’s when the tears started pouring down.

I took off running to the nearest place I could find.  I didn’t even bother to look and see what it was, all I wanted to know was that I could be alone and that I could cry to myself in peace.  I collapsed to the floor on my butt and tucked my legs up into my chest and began to softly cry.

I don’t know how long I was crying in wherever I was for but it was then I heard the door open and soon coming in was Adam and Rami.

“(Y/n)?” Adam said surprised.  I felt myself being torn down as I had finally been revealed. I must’ve came into the hair and makeup trailer and now that they were probably calling it quits, everyone would soon come in and see me crying my eyes out.

“(Y/n) you okay?” Rami asked.

“Hey uhh Rami could you give us a moment alone? Maybe guard the door so that no one comes in just yet?”

“Yeah, yeah sure thing.” I heard the door shut and that’s when I saw Adam sit down in front of me.  I looked up at him to see him in the truck driver get up with the full beard and long haired wig.

“You were right. Okay you wanna hear me say it Adam Lambert?! You were right! I’m in love with Gwilym Lee!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa okay. Okay. Calm down, calm down.” He said as he cautiously reached forward and gently gripped my arms in his hands. “I’m happy you finally came to terms with it dearie, that’s great news actually. But what’s got you so upset?”

“For Christ sake Adam tell me you didn’t forget about the bullying I had to endure all throughout middle and high school! And Jared!” at the mention of the boy’s name his eyes widened and he said.

“Okay hold on, wait just a damn second. Gwilym is nowhere near what that dick Jared was. I’ve seen the two of you together and he makes you happier way more than what Jared did.”

“Well Jared made me happy until he did what he did!” I looked down at my knees and continued lowly, “Oh Adam. I thought I could just keep up a friendship with Gwilym, but now I—” I trailed off as more sobs came up my throat as I choked out, “Now I…..I wish I never came here!” I then broke down once more.

I felt Adam sit close beside me before he wrapped his arms around me bringing me into his chest and kissing my forehead as he rubbed my back in soothing circles and stroked down my hair.

Once I calmed down after what felt like crying all night, Adam took me out of the trailer and already I could see a crowd of people including Gwil standing around asking all sorts of questions at seeing me.

“Guys please. No questions are necessary and please don’t ask me because I won’t answer them either. What was said in the trailer stays between (y/n) and me.” Adam made a clear statement before finally taking me away to find Brian or Roger.

When we finally came across Roger, he soon got protective and asked.

“What happened?”

“Roger could you just take (y/n) back to the hotel, I’ll explain later.”

“Alright, come with me lovie.” I was soon switched out from Adam’s arms to Roger’s and he guided me towards his car.  He helped me into the backseat where I could hide away while he drove us back to the hotel.

I was now in my room lying on my bed hiding under the blankets after just spending a long time under the hot water trying to get rid of the memories of Jared.

You see—I had met Jared during the first collaboration with Adam and Queen.  He was actually one of Brian’s roadies and helped set up all of Brian’s AMPS.  We had a common love for electronics and gradated with the same major even being an ocean apart.  We shortly began dating afterwards and were madly in love.

But when a serious accident caused him to take an early retirement from being on the road since the damage had been done to his lower back.  Which left me to go on the road with Queen and Adam, but we still kept in touch.

Fast forward to just a year ago after four years of dating, I began to wonder if there was gonna be a future with the two of us together.  So one day after we had gotten done with a tour, I get a text from Jared saying that the next night he wanted to meet me at the very restaurant where we had our first official date at.  Adam of course was thrilled thinking that a proposal was in the horizon so he helped me get dolled up the next morning (even with him being completely jetlagged) and I met Jared at our restaurant.

I was trembling with anxiety but also with joy. He took my hand, looked deep into my eyes and that’s when he dropped the bombshell, but it wasn’t what you’d think it was.  Jared had confessed to me in our restaurant where we had our first date, along with many others that he had been cheating on me.

But not just with one woman, not two, not three, but lots of women.  All in the entire span we had been dating.

I refused to listen to anything else he had to say as he tried to defend himself.  But no that’s not the worst part, the worst part of it was, was that the following day (after crying in Adam’s arms all day), Jared came to the stage where Queen and Adam were performing in London and tried to win me back. Saying that it was just a fluck and that he still loved me with all his heart.

He’d constantly tried to call or text me over 100 times a day.  The harassment went on for months till finally I had a restraining order put against him and if he should violate it in the state of England, he’d be arrested. To which he was and was sentenced to five years in jail for refusal to obey the restraining order as well as stalking (yeah he’d stalk me cross country during some of the tours and even snuck backstage and confronted me with arms open and tears rolling down his face).

Ever since then, I’d been afraid to love again because what if they end up being another Jared.  Charming, sweet, noble, funny and charismatic, but the second I turn my back he’d go and sleep with half the women in America. And then make me to be the bad guy because I couldn’t give them a chance to explain why he had to cheat.

I heard a knock at the door and I could only groan as my door soon opened and I felt three separate dips around my bed.

“Adam told us (y/n).” Brian’s voice said. I groaned and buried myself into my pillow.

“You know you’ll suffocate yourself if you do that.” Adam said.

“Better that than dealing with this bitch.” I groaned pitifully.

“C’mon (n/n), come out from under there and look at us.” Roger said. I shot up and glared at him and said.

“There, happy? Goodnight!” before I could collapse back down onto the bed, Adam held me up and trapped me in his arms as he said.

“Stay out here.”

“(Y/n). We know that—you know who really hurt you.” Brian started off.

“Hurt doesn’t even come close to how I felt the day he told me that. God never did I want to kill someone until that day.”

“I don’t blame you, none of us do.” Adam said as he rubbed my back. “But you can’t let what Jared did affect you for the rest of your life.”

“Think it’s already a little too late for that.”

“No it’s not. Because look at what you’ve accomplished since his arrest. The only guys you had a close connection with are me and the guys. Now you’ve become friends with Rami, Ben, Joe and Gwil. And what’s even greater is that you’ve come to accept that you’re starting to have feelings for Gwil.” Adam said.  I looked down and I said.

“How do I know it’ll work out? What if it’s like Jared all over again?”

“You’ll never know unless you go for it.” Roger said. I looked between the three of them but didn’t answer.

“The choice is up to you (y/n). Just make sure that whatever you do decide, you won’t regret it. And just listen to your heart. We’ll support you no matter what you choose.” Brian said as he placed a comforting hand to my shoulder.  I nodded and thanked the guys as they brought me into a group hug.

The next morning I came onto set for the last time (since Adam was done with his cameo, he was needed back at the studio to promote some of his solo stuff, and as his SM manager I needed to be there to spread the word) to confront Gwilym and finally let go of the past (if I could).

I walked around the set till I finally found the person I was searching for.  He was fiddling around with a mock Red special practicing before he would have to film the ‘We will rock you’ scene.  I took a deep breath in before exhaling out and walked towards him.

“Hey Gwil?” he looked up at me and said.

“(Y/n). You’re—you’re still here. I thought you and Adam already left?”

“No, not till tomorrow. I uhh—I wanted to talk to you. About……” I trailed off and that’s when he stood up setting the guitar down and finished my thought.

“About last night?” I nodded. He sighed heavily as he pressed his hands to his face, “I’m really sorry (y/n). I never meant to upset, I was impulsive and stupid to do that. Can we just forget what happened? I was way out of line.”

“Actually Gwilym I—I have something to confess. But can we talk somewhere privately?”

“Of course, we can talk in my trailer. If you’re comfortable with that.” I nodded and soon the two of us headed towards his trailer.

When we got there, he closed the door and I sat down on his sofa while he sat down at one of his chairs and said.

“Okay (y/n), what is it you need to confess?” my leg was bouncing up and down as I tried to formulate the words that I was about to tell him.  I felt the familiar sting of tears in my eyes.

“God I’m sorry.” I choked out.

“No, no, no never feel sorry about this. Please take your time.”

“Last night I—I wasn’t upset because of the, well the about to be kiss. In fact I—I wanted to kiss you too.”

“But.” He stated knowing that I had something else to add on.

“There’s a—reason why I’m so insecure about myself. And—why I haven’t been in a relationship.” I then proceeded to tell him everything.  From the bullies at school, to Jared’s story and how badly he had hurt me. Used me. Treated me like trash.  By the end of it all, Gwil was leaning up against his chair with a heavy expression.

“That son of a—bloody hell. (Y/n) I—I’m so, so sorry you had to go through that hell.”

“Brian, Roger and Adam made it easier on me. After his arrest they allowed me to take some time off from the rest of the tour that I was dealing with to decompress from all that stress. I thought I would never love someone ever again. Until……I met you.” I admitted the last part shyly.

“You—you love me?”

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. I just—had to get it off my chest. So if I’ve made things awkward between us now, I’m sorry. We don’t have to see each other again.”

“(Y/n), (y/n) (y/n) (y/n) (y/n), (y/n).” Gwil came up and knelt in front of me and held my face in his hands. “Sorry you were starting to ramble on so much I could barely understand you.”

“Sorry. Adam always said I did that whenever I get to anxious. Bad trait of mine.”

“No worries love. Now to put your fears and anxiety aside, I want to tell you that I felt the same way about you. After spending these last few weeks together, I came to know the real you and not just through the stories from Brian and Roger. But now hearing this story, which I commend you for telling me. I know you didn’t have to tell me but you did. And I could go on and on about my feelings for you but to summarize it all up, if you’ll give me a chance. I’ll show you that not all men are like that selfish arsehole. I can be the man you deserve. The one who will treat you right, like you’re the only women left on Earth.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“The only girl I’ll love as much as you is my mum.” I smiled and pressed my forehead against Gwil’s and softly thanked him. “I promise (y/n). You’ll be my clever girl.”

“Think I like the sound of that.”

“Well you better get used to it, because there will be a lot of cute little nicknames in the future.”

“Just as long as you don’t give me any cheesy ones like bunny, or cupcake, or turtledove.”

“Spoil sport. And those were the first three I was thinking of.” I softly laughed as a true genuine smile came across my face. “And there’s that beautiful smile that makes me week at the knees. Next to your eyes, your smile is the brightest thing about you.”

“Gwil stop it you’re making me blush.” He softly chuckled before slowly leaning his lips towards mine and he gave me a soft kiss. When I felt that sudden bolt of electricity shoot up my spine, I knew that Gwil was definitely going to be different than Jared.  Even with that soft peck, there was so much passion and love in it that Jared never brought me.

I leaned forward and captured his lips once more, this time brushing my fingers through his short brown hair as I felt his arms slowly wrap further around me.

This was gonna be an adjustment in the days to come. After coming out of the relationship I had, I knew there would be some doubts in the future, especially with Gwil and I having separate careers always being a part from each other (me more than him) but I felt in my bones that when he made that promise earlier, he meant it.

And I was proven right that within 2 years shortly after the Bohemian Rhapsody premiere, I got a proposal right there at the red carpet.

[cassandras-nest]

Invisible Man (chapter two)

Here we are, finally!

After a really long time i can post the second part of my series, so sorry for the delay, but lack of inspiration + life and other things were in the way.

This time i have few people to thank for their help:

First of all @binkyisonline (always there to remind me i have lots of work to do)

And @queen-paladin who helped me the other day when i was stuck and couldn’t go on, thank you.

Then thanks to whoever still read this, it means a lot to me.

As always, criticism, advices are welcome. I’m not a native english speaker so i may have miss something along the way..

(no beta reader because i really want to post it so i just did a quick grammar check)

summary: Newly divorced John Deacon joins the Queen forum’s chatroom with a fake account and start talking with someone who completely understand him and make him feel alive again. He finds himself obsessed with her pretty soon….

pairing: John Deacon x OC (Cassandra)

"If i could tell the future, life could be quite boring" John Deacon 1984.

2 months ago 

It was an easy start, after all...

Deakster - uhm..hi.. 

CoolCat - hi, how are you? :) 

Deakster - Good… i'm new and not quite used to this, sorry... 

CoolCat - nah, nothing to worry about, it's much simpler than it seems 

Deakster - yeah, alright...so, can i ask if you meant that? 

CoolCat - what exactly? Do you mean in the group chat right? 

Deakster - yeah, you really think Hot Space is a good album? 

CoolCat - listen, you seem nice i really don't wanna argue with you. 

Deakster - oh no. i just wanted to tell you that you're quite right, i think that too..:) 

CoolCat - sorry, i'm still mad from before, is that i really can't stand assholes that think i'm too young to understand music... 

Deakster - yeah that was an asshole indeed..but you gave him what he deserved. 

CoolCat - no need to flatter me, i'm already talking to you ;) 

Deakster - i was not... 

CoolCat - relax, man, i'm joking but since we are here, talk to me about yourself…won't you?

Deakster - told you i'm new. Well, my life's quite boring really...i live alone in London and that's it…. 

CoolCat - ...and you like Queen or you wouldn't be here... :D 

Deakster - well…yes! 

It was the shittiest lie he ever said, well maybe one of the shittiest... 

CoolCat - so far so good :) I really didn't see you around here much, you're much more of a lurker, aren't you? 

Deakster - i rather watch more than writing.. 

CoolCat - and...that's not creepy at all xD 

Deakster - i am not- oh, you're joking again? Right? 

CoolCat - yes! You' re a fast learner, i see..i like it :D 

Deakster - so, what about you? Aside from making fun of me? :) 

CoolCat - and quite clever too, i'm impressed ;). Well, this has to wait, maybe next time. 

Deakster - ..but..when? 

CoolCat - now you're asking too much for a first time…;) i'm sure you'll figure it out soon. 

Deakster - ...yeah, you right, i probably will. 

CoolCat - bye :D.

*Coolcat is offline*

------------------

Now. 

This was too much. 

She was way too stressed and tired, and this was the most boring shift she had to make. 

This whole week has been exhausting. Waking up early and studying late at night had started to shown its side effects.

Then there was work and this new shift from early afternoon to late evening that was literally hell. 

On top of that, that afternoon no one entered the café, except for the ones who tried to find shelter from the pouring rain outside, leaving a mess when they left. 

It definitely was the worst day ever. 

She was absently looking outside while her colleagues were chatting not so far from her, but she didn’t care much, all she wanted was to be at home, lazily watching TV, studying or maybe…talking to someone; someone who she hadn’t had the time to talk to for two weeks, and it had been a very long two weeks.

She was abruptly distracted from her thoughts by a voice... 

- Cassie- Martin said - what about you?- he asked casually.

She blinked a little, taken entirely by surprise and slightly turning her body to face them. 

-”What about me” what?- she answered confused. 

- You weren’t listening? we were talking about love and relationships.- he promptly said. 

- Oh...- she only answered 

A special someone? maybe… Maybe not? she didn’t know that ... -she smiled at the thought.

- Do you have someone in your life? Do you like someone? - Martin inquired even more, looking at her.

- Well...maybe, i mean, i like someone…- she babbled - We talked a lot, for almost two months, i think, and he’s very dear to me now- answering them, her face a little bit red. 

Yes, that friend was very special to her. -she realized-

- Oohh.- they all said in unison -interesting! What’s his name? Do we know him? Is he from Uni? - suddenly she was flooded by questions. 

Cassandra blushed even more - No, no… to all of that! - she answered. 

- What do you mean “no”? you still don’t know what his name is? where did you meet him?- now was Cindy who asked, much more concerned than curious. 

She hesitated, lightly biting on her lower lip. 

- Well..- she started to explain - I met him online. I mean in a Queen’s chatroom. You know how much i love that group, right?- she tried to explain as clearly as possible. 

But her colleagues looked at her with wide eyes. 

- Internet? well, that sounds fair, but…- Martin said, raising an eyebrow, concerned - Are you sure? I mean, you never know who could be on the other side of the screen, he may be old and creepy…- he concluded. 

- I already know that, thanks - she answered, crossing her arms over her chest defensively.

- Sorry if we worry about you or for the fact that knowing people online could be dangerous, maybe? - Cindy said, sounding a bit offended. 

- Or that we worry about you in general? - Martin added calmly. 

- Guys, please, i’m not that naive, you know? It’s been, what, two months since i knew him, and we just talked, that’s all..probably i’ll never meet him in real life, so relax - she answered, trying not to sound too harsh. 

- And..- she added then - It’s not that dangerous knowing people online, you should try that sometimes - speaking toward Cindy, that now was avoiding her gaze.

- Cool, as long as you’re safe, it’s totally fine - Martin spoke again - As i said, we’re just worried - trying to ease the situation.

- It’s alright, i’m not mad at you at all - she answered - I’m just tired..- relaxing a bit.  

She didn’t want to argue with them, not now.

She never dared to spoke about him, or the whole situation with other people, and she didn’t realize how easily defensive she could become, until now. 

Cassandra knew him. He wasn’t a bad person at all, he wasn’t what the others described, they didn’t know him, not like she did. 

And she was sure about that. 

The chatter quietly calmed down until it was time to close and go back home; it was then that she decided what to do. Maybe it was what the other said, maybe she wanted to prove them wrong or she just missed him but she decided to go online later that night and see if he was there. It was definitely too long since they spoke, and she felt like she needed him, to talk to with him or maybe... just knowing that he missed her too. 

The walk home was pretty fast, she kept thinking of what she would say to him or what he would say, she also wondered how his life has been these days, if he was ok. Maybe he would be angry with her? God, she really hoped not. 

All these thoughts made her smile along the way. 

This time something was different, she felt different somehow, mostly because she felt safe with him even if she didn’t know who he was or how he looked like; she still had a tiny hope of met him one day.

 __________________ 

John logged many times onto the chatroom in the past days, waiting in vain and, eventually, completely forgetting everything else around him. 

His responsibilities, his problems and the entire world outside. 

Was he starting to be obsessed? Yes, very much so... 

But the life he wanted to leave outside called him abruptly back into reality today. 

His ex-wife called him pretty early in the afternoon, his younger son was sick, and she couldn’t take him to the doctor because she couldn’t take the day off, so she thought that maybe he could, and he agreed in no time. 

Of course, he would, it wasn’t even a question, promptly asking what the problem was. 

- I really don’t know, he was pretty sick two days ago and started having a bit of a fever, but i thought it was just the flu or something he ate...- she answered him, her tone calm, as always. 

John nodded while listening. 

- It’s alright, don’t worry about it. We’ll see once we arrive at the doctor’s office.- John answered, smiling tenderly. 

- You’ll take him here or i’ll come to pick him up?- he asked then. 

- I’ll take him, the doctor is near your apartment, so it’s easier.- she answered quietly 

- Thank you, John, truly - she added. John almost could imagine her smiling. 

When they talked about their children, problems disappear, even if he knows that it’ll be their only reason to call each other now. 

-Don’t mention it. It’s my son too Ronnie, is the least i can do. I’m aware i’m not his favourite parent but i’ll manage - he said, smiling again, sadly, on the phone. 

There was a moment of silence between them; John would have liked to hear her say that he was wrong, that his son loved him very much but John receives only a heartbroken sigh.

- Right, ahm….so - she started - I'll see you tomorrow morning, then.- and the phone call ended. 

It was true, his youngest son was the one who took the news of their divorce badly. He was a mama-boy, so he started to hate on his father, even if his mother was telling him constantly not to. 

He could manage that; he loved him, he loved all his children, so he could stand a bit of hate from one of them. 

----------------------------------- 

Tonight, both of them needed each other and, for once, fate was on their side...

-----------------------------------

Before bed, John decided to try again.  Maybe -he thought- tonight would be the right one. So he made himself a nice cup of tea and sat in front of his computer; once logged-in he went directly to the chatroom. 

He started to scroll aimlessly the list of contacts hoping to find the one he was looking for… 

And then he saw it and almost didn’t believe it...

*Coolcat is online*

bonus: their account (did these a while ago, my reference was a real profile on a real Queen forum)

taglist: @bluewillowmom @deakysgurl @acdeaky @stormtrprinstilettos @dontstopmemeow @mydeakydoesme @babyzellodeacon @sitonmyhot-seatoflove @myguardianmailman @deacytits  @deakys-chesthair @miamideacon @supersonicfreddie @bismillahnah  @painandpleasure86​ @laedymoon​ @deakygurl​

[another-blog-bites-the-dust]

Invisible.

Summary: After being invisible for most of your life, you finally find John who- years later- sees who you really are.

Warnings: Lots of angst I HATED MAKING JOHN UPSET 😭 swearing, violence, slight suggestiveness, general pain because John gets so angry but ends with fluff!

A/N: John is too innocent for this...which is why I put him through it 😭😅I hope you enjoy! 💖

You always felt invisible to the world, that was probably one of the main reasons why you were so good at your job. You blended in and always perfectly camouflaged between the buildings. No one ever took a second glance at you, they barely noticed you were there anyway.

Except one person.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" You looked up from the book you were reading on the park bench one sunny evening in July. Your brow crinkled slightly, people in London weren't the friendliest so why was the man beside you starting a conversation?

A small smile appeared on your face "Lovely," you replied "The sun makes the roses smell sweeter for some reason. You can smell the row of flowerbeds filled with them at the front of the park way back here when the sun is shining." You discreetly placed your bookmark between two pages and shut over the book.

The man inhaled some air though his nose- you were right. "John Deacon," You shook his hand but hesitated giving him your name. You eventually told him with a shy grin. You read people well and he was full of innocence and obliviousness. He didn't know who you were and chances were he never would. "There's a cracking little cafe just over there," he pointed to it and you could just see it between the trees. "Fancy a tea, Y/N?"

Since that day you had been drawn to John. He had flirted endlessly with you in the first few weeks you had known him. You hung about the streets of London a lot, he took you to a music shop that was one of his favourites and smugly showed you him expertly strumming a bass guitar with a cheeky grin on his face. "Very impressive," you purred and walked around the shop.

John put the guitar down and then placed his hands in his pockets "Uh...my mum asked if you'd like to come round for dinner tonight?" He asked, not looking up to you due to nerves.

You smiled to yourself, looking at the guitars hanging up on the walls. "You've told your mum about me?"

"Course I have!" He said "I never want to shut up when I start telling people how gorgeous you are or how smart you are." He shyly bit down on his lip, he was taken aback when you casually linked your arm through his, the first of any type of contact with him.

"I'd love that, John." You both didn't know that much about each other- well, you knew more about him than he did of you after all the extensive background checks you did on him and his family. They were nothing for you to worry about. When he asked what you did for a living you had told John that you worked with a security firm- technically that was kind of true. He didn't know the extensiveness of it and there was a fairly large chance he would never know. John picked you up later that night and you went to his parents house, you had bought his mum a bunch of flowers and John's father a bottle of wine. His father mused over the Italian wine with an impressed tone as he inspected the bottle. You didn't want to say that you manged to pick it up when you were in Italy last week being treated like a punchbag- perks of the job.

"So Y/N!" John's mother smiled at you from across the table. You were sat next to John who kept discreetly placing his hand on your knee every now and then. "Do you live in London on your own or do you stay with your parents?"

John shot his mother a wide eyed glare, he gently squeezed on your knee and was about to answer on behalf of you, he wasn't sure how you'd react to that question. He already knew what the answer would be. "Uh no," you sadly smiled "My parents passed away when I was sixteen. I lived with my grandparents until I got a place of my own a few years ago." You placed your hand on top of John's and he released his grip on your knee when you began soothingly rubbing your fingers over his knuckles. John's mother profoundly apologised over and over but you assured her it was alright, she didn't know.

After dinner John took you up to his old bedroom. "Sorry about mum,"

"No," you smiled and took his hand "It's okay!" You were leaning up against the wall, John was moving closer and closer to you. He gently pressed his lips to yours, even though you knew he was going to kiss you, it still took you by surprise. He pulled back faster than his lips were on yours and nervously apologised. You grinned and grabbed his hand before he could move away and tugged him towards you. "Only apologise if you're not going to do it again..." you smiled and John happily took that as a sign. His lips were on yours once more.

•••

"Things between you and John getting serious then?" Your colleague and friend, Mark, asked. "Only I heard that you've moved in with him now."

You shrugged a shoulder with a small smile on your face "A part of me hopes it's getting serious...the other part is petrified that he's going to find out everything." You sighed and sat down next to Mark to get some advice. "How did you tell Claire?" You asked, referring to his wife.

"I didn't. You know we can't tell anyone unless they find out- even then we can only tell them so much." He tapped away on the computer in front of him "I know you're worried something bad is going to happen to him," you glanced up to Mark and then let your eyes fall. He was right. In this line of work people were always after you and you didn't want to put John in any danger. "There's a way you can kind of keep him under a watchful eye- aside from security cameras and such." He motioned to the gold chain on your neck that had a locket attached. It was more than just a necklace- it was a tracking device. "Give him your tracker, you can always get another one."

You nodded and let out a sigh. "He's going on a European tour. He leaves tomorrow afternoon." You said. "It's good when he's gone- not good," you quickly corrected yourself feeling a little guilty for saying that. "But easier." Mark hummed, understandingly. "When he's touring he doesn't know I'm in another country almost dying," you chortled and nervously picked at your fingernails. "I think he would be crushed if he ever found out about what I do. That's why I'm hoping he'll never find out." You took off your necklace "But for now I can try and keep him safe."

Later that night, your head was resting on your hand while you traced your fingers across John's bare chest while your legs were intertwined together. "I'll miss you so much," John smiled "But I'll be back in a few weeks."

"You'll be too busy rocking out every night to miss me," you smirked and pressed a kiss to his lips. "I want you to have something," you whispered, looking deep into John's eyes before taking off your necklace and clasping it around his neck. He grinned and glanced down, rubbing it between his fingers. "Keep a piece of me with you and you'll always be safe..." you brushed your fingers over the chain, tears welling in your eyes.

"I'll never take it off my neck so long as shall live." He kissed you "I'll treasure it forever." You let out a small sob and hugged him tightly. "Love," John cooed "I'm only gone for a few weeks, I'll be home back in bed with you before you know it."

"I know," you sniffled and curled up against him. The necklace shone in the faint moonlight, almost taunting you. "Stay safe."

•••

You flinched and stood up straight when you heard your superior announce herself. "Ma'am," you nodded. She handed you a file "What's this?" You asked with your brow furrowing slightly at the papers that read: 'SECURITY BRIEFING' at the top.

"The royals, Prince Charles and Princess Diana, have specifically asked for you to be their guard at Live Aid next week."

You went wide eyed and hurried to catch up with her "I c-can't do that ma'am!" Your voice trembled "J-John- Queen! Queen are going to be there and John will see me!" It had been a few years since John returned from his tour around Europe. Your necklace was still hanging from his neck. And an engagement ring was hanging from yours. You never wore it at work or on a job- if someone caught you, they'd know you had someone that they could use against you. You always slipped it on when you arrived home though.

She raised a brow and folded her arms at your outburst. "Sadly we do not get to pick and choose in this field, agent." She said between gritted teeth. "Especially when the royals specifically asked for you. Most people would be thrilled at that! You have been their guard many times over the years and they consider you one of the best and the most professional. You will do this." You huffed and ran a hand through your hair, debating with her about John. She narrowed her eyes "Make yourself invisible then. You're good at that."

"John always sees me!" Your voice cracked "Ma'am-"

She held up her hand "This discussion is finished, Y/L/N. I'm sorry but this has to be done." She walked away and you let out frustrated growl under your breath.

John noticed a shift in your mood after that day, he was getting worried. "Are you going to be there tomorrow?" He asked and you hesitated taking a sip of tea.

"Uh...I meant to say," you placed down your mug "Work needs me and I...I'm sorry, John."

His eyes softened and he hugged you- you were surprised at his reaction. "Is this why you've been acting weird over the past week? Because you can't go tomorrow?"

"I know how important this is to you and the boys..." your voice was shaking and so were your hands. "I'm sorry," you whispered and a tear fell down your cheek.

John was quick to wipe it away "Hey, hey, hey! It's okay!" He smiled reassuringly.

"Why are you always so good to me? So understanding?" You turned away from him and let out a staggered breath. "I don't deserve you..."

John scoffed and hugged you from behind "Now don't you be getting all like that! There's plenty more concerts for you to come too!" He turned you to face him. "Please don't cry," he softly rubbed away your tears with his thumbs while cupping your face. "You'll set me off!" You pressed your forehead against his and he pecked your nose. "Why don't we have an early night, hmm? Would you like that?" You tentatively nodded. 24 hours from now this could all be very different but you had to try and be invisible from John and the band- it was the only way.

•••

"Is everything alright?" You looked up to the soft voice and blinked "Only you look a little nervous, Y/N."

You smiled "I'm perfectly alright, your highness." She raised her brow. Diana knew you well enough now that something was the matter. You sighed "Queen are playing so that means John's here today and...and he doesn't know what I do." You explained and she sent you a sympathetic smile. You had told her all about him and of course, your worries about him eventually finding out. Over the years you both confided in each other and considered each other as more a close friend and not as a member of the royal family and a bodyguard. "I have to keep myself invisible from him."

She placed a hand on your arm and sent you a small smile "I'll do my bit to help," she winked and you grinned.

"I'm the once supposed to be protecting you...not the other way about!" You laughed and she giggled. You all walked through backstage to get to their seats.

"Your highness!" Someone stopped and bowed in front of Charles and Diana and you swiftly raised an arm across them, reminding the person of their boundaries. "Some of the performers would like to meet you!" Diana shot you a concerned gaze but you sent her a small nod when you noticed The Who and Bowie up ahead. Queen were no where in sight. You kept close to the royals as they moved forward and shook people's hands. "And here comes more royalty!" You froze catching a glimpse of John's fluffy hair. You looked to the ground and tried to hide your face a little. But you looked up just as John glanced behind Diana, his smile falling. He opened his mouth to call out your name but Diana stood in front of him, blocking his line of vision.

"John Deacon, isn't it?" She sweetly smiled and held out her hand for him to shake. John couldn't deny royalty. He shook her hand but still tried to look to see if it was really you behind her. "Very nice to meet you- thank you for your contribution today." She sweetly smiled. "We should be going to our seats." She gently nudged Charles who nodded in agreement. Diana discreetly pulled you with her to try and get you out of the situation. John stood there numb- he didn't know what to feel. Was it actually you?

"Thank you," you sadly whispered to her "You didn't have to do that for me..."

She smiled and reassuringly squeezed your hand "I know, but you risk your life for us...it's the least I can do." You sat beside her while you watched the concert- watching John on stage always made your heart swell. When they finished you stood up and clapped with tears welling in your eyes. Then the band bloody sat behind you all- just your luck. You could hear John murmur your name to the boys and you shut your eyes over, shakily sighing and bracing yourself for a hand tapping on your shoulder.

Then you felt the tap. Your eyes flickered over your shoulder and you saw a flash of blonde. "It is you!" Roger smiled. Diana sent you a wary glance and you reassured her with a small nod. "John was wondering-"

You cut him off "I'm working." You hissed and looked at John who looked as if he wanted to ask you a million questions. "I can't talk to any of you right now..." you turned back around and rubbed the bridge of your nose between your fingers. You had a lot of explaining to do.

•••

You arrived home, there was a faint glow coming from the kitchen. You sighed and placed your keys down before walking through. John was sitting at the table with a cup of tea that was half empty. He looked up to you and then took a sip. You sat down across from him and began twirling your fingers. "I didn't plan on telling you like this..." you quietly admitted.

"No, I bet you weren't going to tell me at all." John snapped. He had every right to be angry with you and you were ready for his wrath, but it still hurt. "What even are you?" He asked with tears starting to sting his eyes. "What do you do? Are you a bodyguard?"

"Sometimes," you whispered.

John banged his fist against the table and you flinched. "Stop being so vague with me!"

"I couldn't tell you unless you knew!" Your voice raised and a tear slipped down your face.

"That doesn't even make any sense!" John turned away and loudly sniffled. "Who do you work for? Clearly not a typical security firm!"

"MI5 originally....now MI6," you told him even though you really shouldn't have- your revelation shocked him, you could see it on his face. "Secret service agent- I suppose you could class me as a spy depending on the situation. The royals often request me as a bodyguard. I uh...carry out a lot of reconnaissance missions, things like that."

"Have you got hurt before?" He asked, his anger briefly being clouded by concern.

"Sometimes," you replied.

"Badly?" John raised a wary brow and you shook your head no but didn't look him in the eye. A moment of silence passed. "Have you been shot at before?" He asked in a low tone.

"No." Lie.

"Have you shot at someone else before?"

"No." Lie.

He remained quiet for a few seconds. "Have you killed someone before?" You looked to the table and then back to John.

"No." Lie.

"Are you lying?" He sternly asked. You sighed and looked away from him- your silence said it all. "Why all the lies?!" He cried, hot tears flowing down his red cheeks.

"Because I've always been invisible John!" You shouted, taking him by surprise. "Even you only saw a certain extent of me but now...now you can see it all- you can really see me!" You leaned forward "I know what you see...you see a monster. You don't see the woman you fell in love with!"

"I'VE ALWAYS SEEN HER!" He yelled even louder than you and that knocked you back a little. "What was going to happen if you died on the job? Huh?" He seethed- almost hating himself for thinking like that.

"I wrote a letter-"

He cut you off with an unamused, fake laugh. "Oh a letter! Of course! 'Sorry, love, if you're reading this I've been lying this entire time about what I do and well, when's a better time to tell you in an agent for the secret service? When I'm dead!'" He screamed and stood up, leaning over the table. "I bet you didn't even think about me...think about us!" You sadly looked to the chain around his neck and wanted to tell him that of course you thought about him- that necklace around his neck was proof of that. But you stood up and said that you were going to bed- you didn't want to aggravate him any further. You were waiting for John to climb in beside you, wrap his arm around your waist and then whisper sweet words in your ear that would send you off to sleep- but those things never came. When you got up the next morning with stinging eyes and a headache, he wasn't there and your necklace was sitting on the kitchen table.

You eventually arrived at work and sat down with a groan next to Mark. "John found out," you said in a groggy voice. "Left me this morning...wasn't there then I woke up and he took off the necklace." You sighed and shook your head. "The worse part isn't even that he found out...the worse part was seeing the look of fear, disappointment and anger on his face."

Mark placed a hand on your shoulder "He doesn't understand why you lied, Y/N. He doesn't understand that we all have to lie to protect the ones we love. I know that John loves you unconditionally but you have to give him some time. He'll be asking himself a million questions right now- time is the best thing you can give him." You tightly smiled and nodded tentatively. "Got the files for your next mission. A good distraction for you!" He smirked and you just about managed to crack a smile.

You glanced over the notes before being summoned by your boss. You made the journey up to her office, dragging your heels on the way down the hall. You opened the door and went wide eyed "J-John?" You whispered and felt tears pricking your eyes. "W-why are you here?" You asked and stepped further into the office, shutting the door behind you.

"Found him practically demanding to speak with me, Y/L/N," she glared at John. "Take a seat," she motioned to the chair across from John. You sat down and looked at him, it looked like he had barely slept and had been crying for hours. "Mr Deacon," your boss captured his attention. "You must understand that everything that is said in here is all classified information- that also applies to every word she said last night." You placed your head in your hand- of course she'd know you'd tell him. "Because if you say anything, you do not only put her in danger, but you also put yourself in danger." John squeezed his eyes shut and dismally nodded.

"I just...need to be reassured that she'll be okay. If anything happened to-" he cut himself off and began crying again. It broke your heart. You reached for his hand and he let you take it, he was still angry at you for not telling him but it was comforting to know that you were there for him.

An idea popped into your mind. "Show him a scenario situation- five minutes is all I'm asking for."

She laughed at your mad suggestion. "Bold of you assume five minutes is enough time for you..." she uttered.

"Bold of you assume that five minutes isn't enough time for me," you challenged. "If he doesn't get to see me in a situation- I'm walking. I'll hand in my badge and my gun." John's brows raised when you mentioned a gun. "Please," you pleaded. "I want John to know that I can handle myself in dangerous situations. I need to assure him." He gently squeezed your hand and you softly smiled. It was something he always did when he heard you getting upset.

Your boss sighed and nodded "Fine. Five minutes, four men-"

You cut her off "Eight."

"Four!" She raised her voice a little.

You kept your cool "Eight."

"Okay...six!" She said.

"Ten."

She was getting to the end of her tether. You knew you'd get your demand. "Fine! You want ten- you get ten!" She snapped. "Ten men in five minutes...lucky boys. Get yourself organised, agent." You stood up and nodded at her with a smile. It fell slightly with guilt when you glanced at John. He watched you leave the room and a few minutes later, he left with your boss.

John was lead to a room with a two way mirror on the wall. It looked into a room with ten men in it. They had various dangerous weapons in their belts and wearing protective body armour. John saw you sitting in the middle on a chair with your hands and legs bound. "Why doesn't she have anything?" He asked, worry laced between every word.

Your boss proudly smiled. "She doesn't need anything." She held down a button and spoke into a microphone. "Time starts...now." In a blink of an eye you had already managed to untie yourself and take down one of the ten men. You grabbed the gun that was in his belt and began shooting. John jumped and held his chest. Your boss smirked "It's alright, Mr Deacon...all weapons are duds and the guns fire blanks. It's just an indication of wether they are out of the scenario or not. If they take her on with hand on hand combat, they shout out before she's able to seriously hurt them...or kill them." She smirked and John gulped. He watched you use your whole body as a weapon. The same body he tickled when he was feeling playful. The same body he rubbed when it was tense. The same body he kissed and caressed. The same body he held and worshiped when he made love to you. He glanced at the clock- a minute left with three men remaining. You easily took down two of them within seconds of each other. The last man standing punched you in the face a little too hard and you could taste blood on your lip. You growled and managed to flip him by the arm and press him against the two way mirror. John jumped back and watched the man scream out that he was finished. You dropped him with ten seconds to spare. "I hope you understand Mr Deacon...your fiancée is the best agent and weapon we have." She turned to John "That's why I did this favour for her...for both of you." She glanced behind John's shoulder and he turned. He saw you by the doorframe wiping the blood away from your lip. "I'll let you have a moment together."

You sent her a thankful smile and she shut the door behind you. You were both silent for a few minutes until you finally spoke up. "You have no idea how much I wanted to tell you," you whispered. "I couldn't. It went against protocol and I couldn't put you in any danger. I love you too much to do that to you, so I kept a part of me from you- a part I knew you probably wouldn't be able to love anyway." John sniffled slightly and discreetly tried to wipe away his tears. "Lots of people want me dead, John." You lowly spoke and his eyes snapped up to you, narrowing with worry. "If they knew about you...I'd hate to think what would happen. I just wanted to keep you safe- hence the necklace." You let out a shaky sigh "It's a tracking device."

He nodded "Of course it is...why wouldn't it be?!" He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm still angry, Y/N," he admitted "But I will always love you." You let out a sob and John rushed over to you and wrapped his arms around you. "Every part of you," he whispered and hugged you tighter before pulling back and wiping away the small dot of blood on your lip. "You're really good...no! Amazing- at what you do!"

"Sadly that's only scratching the surface of my skills..." you whispered. You laced your fingers with John's "I'm sorry." John just held you in his arms, they were warm and always made you feel safe. He couldn't stay with you all day- you still had work to do and eventually had to leave MI6 but he was in the house when you arrived home. And he was wearing the necklace.

"Thought we could watch a film and snuggle on the sofa tonight?" He suggested and you nodded with a smile. He put on the video and you curled up beside him on the couch with a blanket over you both. John glanced down at you in awe. He couldn't believe how normal you really were, especially when he had seen you take down ten men only hours before.

"What's the film?" You asked and John gulped- not knowing if you'd laugh or kill him at the choice. The theme to James Bond played and you slowly looked to John with a glare. "I just thought that the two of you had a lot in common and I- no! S-stop!" He laughed as you tickled him. "I t-thought it would be f-funny!" He said between giggles. You stopped tickling him when you realised your faces were inches apart. John closed the gap and grabbed your face, passionately kissing you and then pinning you to the couch. "The love of my life is a fucking badass spy." You let out a loud laugh and he kissed you again.

"Thank you, John...for giving me another chance," you kissed him again "And seeing me when I was invisible." You brushed your fingers over his cheeks before deciding to show him how strong you really were by picking him up bridal style- causing him to laugh. "I think my next mission is going to be my best one," you grinned and John raised a brow, asking you what the mission was. You smirked and headed towards the bedroom "It's an undercover mission with you," you suggestively purred and John's eyebrows swiftly raised and a boyish grin spread across his face. John thought that maybe having a fiancée who was a spy wasn't such a bad thing.

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Tags- (Tag list is open! Just let me know if you want to be tagged or not!)

@rrrogah-tayluhh @rogerofmylife @phantom-fangirl-stuff @pyrotechnic789 @deacytits @mercurys-bike @thatgeekspeak @mhftrs @dannydelay @queenismylifenow @whitequeen-blackqueen @stateofloveandvedder @blondyfel @mespetitestortues @trickster-may @xtrashmammalstefx

[babemazzello]

‘39 - A John Deacon FanFiction

Chapter 12 - Consequences

Story Description: Amy is sitting in his apartment when she hears some frantic knocking outside her door. She opens it to see a frightened and frazzled John Deacon. A 23-year-old John Deacon. Who believes it’s still 1974, and not 2019. Amy takes it upon herself to help John and get him back to where he belongs.  Part 1 is here. The rest of the parts are on my masterlist.

Chapter Description: Amy and John have to come to terms with what happened during their drunken game of truth. Amy is still conflicted and John is at his wit’s end. 

Notes: If you would like to be tagged for this story, either leave a comment or shoot me a message and I will tag you for all future chapters. Thank you all so much for reading, by the way. It means a lot to me. 

Second Note: So, this is SUCH A BIG CHAPTER! Like I didn’t realize how big this was when I started writing it, but oh boy. This was also probably my favorite to write so far, just in front of the last chapter. Please enjoy! (Also, if you are reading this and you haven’t read any of the other chapters, this works pretty well as a stand alone one as well, I think.)

Warning: This chapter is 18+. Instead of telling you what makes it 18+ as that would ruin the surprise, I'm just going to tell you that people under 18 shouldn't read this. There are lots of things that could be in this category, so just keep that in mind. ;)

Words: 5.5k (like I said, she’s a big one)

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The next morning, my head was pounding in. I had one of the worst hangovers I've ever had in my life. Not only did my head hurt, but my entire body ached from the dehydration. I got out of bed and made my way into the kitchen. Slowly opening my door and not trying to disturb John. He was still asleep as I walked past him.

Once I got into the kitchen, I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water. Taking a few gulps to calm my head. I rubbed the side of it as I stared at the wall. Trying to remember everything that happened last night. It was hazy. I tried to remember what we talked about or did because right now, all I could remember was the constant stream of alcohol burning my throat as I drank it down.

I stared at the wall and remembered a game. A truth game. As I thought more about it, I remembered the questions we were asking each other. Risqué ones fueled by the lack of filter in our brains. Ones about sex and the last time we masturbated. I thought about it more, trying to remember how each of us answered the questions. Then, I remembered.

He told me that the last time he masturbated, he thought of me. And I admitted the same thing back to him. Because even if it wasn't exactly the last time, it had been a countless number of times in my life where I thought of him.

Then, we kissed.

Not only did we kiss, but I straddled him and rutted against him. Fuck. I thought. Placing my face in the palm of my hand. What the fuck was I thinking? But, I know what I was thinking. I was alone and drunk in an apartment with the man that I had been 'in love with' for years of my life and he started admitting to me that he liked me back enough to get off to the thought of me. No wonder I pounced on him like I did.

But, that was stupid. I can't be in a relationship with him. I know it would just leave me heartbroken when he went back. And what if he remembered me when he went back and never married Veronica and they didn't have their six kids. I would be changing the lives of so many people.

I heard John stir on the couch, letting out a small grunt as he did so. I quickly chugged the rest of my water, filled it up, and ran back into my room. I couldn't confront him about what we did last night. I was too scared to hurt him. I didn't want to hurt him. But, I got myself into this mess. And the best way to confront something when you're scared is to not do it at all. So, I decided that I was just going to stay in bed all day to nurse my hangover.

John woke up about an hour later. I could hear him rummaging around in the kitchen and start to make something to eat. I felt my stomach growl, but I didn't want to leave the sweet sanctity of my room just yet. I wasn't ready.

He kept making food before sitting down and eating it. I listened to the silent apartment that was filled with the noises of crunching toast as he bit down into it. It was faint through the walls, but I could hear it nonetheless. Not before long, he got up and washed his dishes in the sink. Letting the water run as he scrubbed them. Then, I heard his footsteps making their way over to my door. He knocked on it.

"Amy?" He said in a voice so quiet and sweet that I almost gave in to him again right then and there.

"Yes," I replied, half as a whimper. The things he did to me I would never understand.

"Is everything alright?" His voice was still soft and sweet. I could tell that his ear was pressed up against the door to hear my answer.

"I've just got a bad hangover is all. Feel like staying in bed all day." It wasn't a complete lie, but it was better than telling him everything that was going through my mind.

"Okay, well, I brought you some toast with butter just how you like it if you want that." Why was he being the sweetest human being on the planet right now? It made everything so much harder. I didn't answer. "I'll leave it by the door in case you change your mind." I heard the plate gently being placed onto the carpeted floor. "I'll be in here if you need me." He walked away.

I let out a long sigh as soon as he left the vicinity of my room. He was nice enough to know that he wasn't allowed in my room so he didn't offer to bring the toast in to me. I got up from the bed and opened the door just enough to see the toast on the ground. I bent down and picked it up. I could tell that Deacy knew what I was doing, but was kind enough to not turn around and look at me.

I took the toast into my room and ate it. As I did, I looked around my room at the mess of Queen memorabilia laid out everywhere. My scrambled piling of it onto the floor so that it was out of his sight. Once I finished up my 'meal', I got up and grabbed every little Queen thing I could and shoved it into my closet. I looked at each thing before I put it away. Especially if it had a picture of John on it.

I couldn't believe that this man was sitting in my living room. It still blew my mind. But, then I remembered what I was doing right now. Avoiding him. Trying to stay away from him even right after we kissed. I felt so stupid for doing that. But, I think it might be the best thing for both of us.

Once I put the final piece away, I noticed that my water cup was empty. It had been about an hour since John brought me the toast. And I had just heard him go into the bathroom. I ran out of my room to fill up my water. I heard the toilet flush and I ran back into my room. Closing my door just as I heard the bathroom door open. Once again, he was in front of my bedroom.

"Hey, I just heard you," he teased through the door. I could hear his smile on the other end. "Are you feeling better?"

"A little," I replied. My hangover had completely gone away now thanks to the water and food, but I didn't want him to know that.

"Well, when you do feel completely better, why don't you come out here and we can continue what we did last night. I-If you're up to it, I mean." I could feel his cheeks blushing through the door as I heard his index finger sliding up and down the wood paneling of the white door. Waiting for my response.

"I'm really tired right now. I think I might go to sleep again." I heard his hand drop from the door.

"Okay, feel better." It wasn't full disappointment in his voice, but I could tell that some was there. I did try to fall asleep, but it didn't work.

The rest of the day went like this. Whenever John would go into the bathroom, I would run out for some more water or food before hiding in my room again. Sometimes he would check up on me, but I kept giving him a different fake excuse as to why I would be staying in my room. And each one was like a dagger in my heart. Because I wanted to kiss him again so badly that it hurt more than ever. There felt like there was a pit of darkness in my chest that could only be lifted by feeling his soft lips on mine.

I fell asleep that night. It was the first day since he was here that I didn't see Deacy. It felt strange and unusual. He had become such a big part of my life that I didn't really know what to do with myself without him. Then I thought that maybe being a little bit selfish wouldn't hurt anything. Like, what if he went back home and his brain was swiss-cheesed and had holes in it like it did when he got here. That would only make sense, right?

But, no. I couldn't. I have to stay strong for the mere possibility that I could change the past and subsequent future.

The next morning I woke up pretty early for work. I got dressed and grabbed my camera bag. I walked carefully out of my room and out the front door. I heard him moving around in the kitchen already, but I tried to seem as invisible as possible as I snuck out. I let out a sigh of relief when John hadn't seen me leave.

That day at work was a nightmare. I couldn't focus on anything because my thoughts were only focused on John. I couldn't seem to shake that night out of my head. The way his lips felt on mine. How I could feel his length underneath me. The pit in my stomach when I rutted against him and the consequential grunt he let out in return. All of it made me want him so badly. So much so that the thought of driving home in the middle of the day to fuck him was on my mind more than once. And I got pretty close to acting on it.

But, the day drew to a close and I had to go home to him. Something that I loved and dreaded. I packed up my stuff and drove home. When I got to the front door, I let out a long sigh before unlocking it and stepping inside. I saw John on the couch watching a movie. I smiled at him before placing my bag down on the ground. He paused the movie and looked over at me.

"Hi," he said in his soft voice.

"Hi," I replied.

"Do you want to watch this with me? Just started it a couple of minutes ago. Might be fun." He was trying to get me to sit with him. And as much as that did sound like a lot of fun, I still wasn't ready to face him.

"I can't. I just want to...uh sleep right now. Sorry, I-"

"Are you avoiding me?" He asked. Placing the remote down by his side and turning his full attention toward me. I stood completely frozen in my spot. I guess I hadn't done the best job of hiding it from him. My non-answer gave him everything he needed to know. "Why?" He was more serious and stern than before.

"You wouldn't understand." I finally spoke. It's like he pulled it right out of me.

"Try me." He retorted, standing up from the couch.

"I can't," I replied. "I just can't."

"Did I do something wrong? Did I push you too far? Because if I'm remembering that other night correctly, then you were just as into it as I was." He took a couple of steps closer to me. I was still glued to my spot.

"I loved what we did together the other night," I admitted. There was no point in hiding it. He could tell that I liked it from how I was kissing him.

"Then what is it? Why are you avoiding me?" He was a little angrier now. Not raising his voice, but I could tell that he was at the edge with all of this. He had just about enough with my teasing and wishy-washy behavior.

"I can't explain that to you. I'm not even sure if I know myself." I had spent the last two days trying to rationalize what I was doing to him, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't fully understand what I was doing. There was always something in me that told me that this wasn't the best thing. That being with him is what we both needed.

"What the hell am I supposed to think?" He said, walking right up to me. Only a step between the two of us. "First, we dance together and almost kiss. Something that I simply brushed off as you not being ready. And then we get close again and drink and make out on your couch. You even straddled me for Christ's sake. Now, you seem to want nothing to do with me. I don't understand." It hurt me to know that he was thinking about the same exact thing I was. But, from another angle. An angle that made him think I wasn't deeply in love with him.

"I-I," I couldn't finish. Nothing was coming out of my mouth. I couldn't form words anymore. Everything he said was true.

"Do you even like me?" He asked. His voice returning to the softness it once had. His eyes turning down in sadness at his own words. "Is that it? Have you been leading me on because you think that I need this in order to stay here with you? Because I want it, but I don't need it. I only want it if you want it too. I don't want to push you into something you don't want to do." My breathing quickened as I felt my eyes prick with tears at the tone of his voice. At the words coming from his mouth. There was a long pause. Waiting for me to answer him. He needed an answer.

"There is nothing I want more in this world than to be with you. And I mean that whole-heartedly. Nothing." I replied in a tone slightly louder than a whisper. His eyes bore into mine. There was another pause.

"Then, why are you avoiding me?" He repeated his question. I still didn't have an answer to it. He stepped even closer to me. So close that we could feel the other person's breath on our faces.

"Because I don't want my heart broken," I replied. It wasn't the full truth. But it was most of it.

"Sometimes you just have to take that risk," he whispered.

"I truly wish that I could," I whispered back.

"Why can't you?" He asked. His eyes staring right at my lips. My breath hitched in my throat when I noticed. Unable to keep myself at bay any more.

"I can't tell you and you wouldn't understand," I replied.

"You said that already," He retorted.

"I know, but it's the truth." I didn't know how else to answer him.

"What would the harm be in a little heartbreak? It happens to everyone. Why not have a little fun in the meantime?" His words made me melt. Letting a small whimper out of my mouth. Melting softly against the wall that I had been pushed up to. I was frozen again and he backed away a step. "But, only if you're up for it. I don't want to do anything you wouldn't want to participate in. It's up to you." I stood there looking at him. He was giving me my chance. My last chance. If I pushed him away, he would stay away. If I wanted him, he would have me for good.

It was time for me to decide.

My eyes flitted back and forth as I thought of what my next words would be. Carefully I thought about whenever we would get him back to his time. How it might affect the past/future if he was in love with me and not Veronica. But, I guess we had passed that stage anyway. It wasn't like he didn't like me at all and I would be flipping the switch. He had feelings for me and there was nothing I could do to change that. Plus, he knows things about the future. And having my heart broken a little and him having feelings for me couldn't be any worse than that.

And it doesn't help that he's still standing so close to me. My heart is aching for him and I don't know how long he will be here with me, but I know I can't keep torturing myself like this for much longer. It can't be good for my health.

"I want to be with you so badly. So fucking badly," I admitted to him. He stepped closer to me again and put his hand on my hip.

"Then, let's take a risk. If I like you and you like me, then nothing else should matter, right?" I nodded. He was right. How could I regret something like this? It's only what I had been dreaming of since I was 16. And now was my chance. I wasn't going to throw it away. I can't help his feelings. We were in too deep to try and forget them.

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay." I let a wide smile creep across my face. He did the same. Mimicking my happiness. His eyes moved down to my neck. Exposed and perfect for kissing. He leaned down and pressed his lips softly to my skin. I let out a whimper. His lip were so soft and gentle. I melted into him as his kisses became more heated.

"I want you so bad," he said into my skin. I let out a small moan at his words and I felt the heat rise in my lower stomach. All of my blood pumping to the space between my legs as he began to suck and nibble at my skin. I wrapped an arm around his neck and let my hand plunge into his impossibly soft hair. Feeling every strand against my fingertips and pressing his head further against me.

He chuckled into the crook of my neck at my actions and stepped even closer to me. Our bodies flush against each other and both of his hands now resting on my hips. Pulling them as close to him as he could. His mouth moved further up my neck and I cocked my head to the side to allow him better access. He kissed right below my ear, even nibbling it a bit making me jump at the feeling.

His hands moved from my hips and slowly reached across my ass. Taking one cheek in each hand as he squeezed lightly. It all felt amazing. A man hadn't touched me like this in too long and I was even more worked up by who was touching me. I kept letting out small whimpers and moans at his actions. And after he had been kissing my neck for a while, he hips jerked into mine involuntarily. He tried to back them off and said 'sorry' at his actions, but I softly pushed him away.

He stared at my face, worried that I was telling him to stop. But, I simply wanted to kiss him. Properly this time. Not will all the alcohol running through my system. A proper kiss. I leaned in and closed my eyes. He did the same and our lips crashed together in a needy kiss. Our lips were radiating warmth as they mingled together. Loving the taste of each other. Electricity flew between us and I melted even more into him. The only thought flying through my head was why hadn't we been doing this sooner? Why was I so scared? This is obviously what we should have been doing all along.

The pit in my stomach grew larger and tighter when his body was flush up against mine again and I could feel his hardening length against me. I pushed him away one more time.

"Get on the couch," I instructed, nodding my head towards it. His eyes were blown out with lust and grew a little darker at the suggestion.

"Are you sure?" he asked. I nodded. "This is what you want? Truly?" I nodded again.

"Fuck yes," I breathed out. He stepped back and sat down on the couch. I kissed him when I moved over there as well, standing between his spread legs. I got down on my knees and placed my hands on his thighs while we kissed some more. His hand was tangled in my hair as I smiled and giggled into the kisses. Eventually, I broke away.

The look on his face when I started to slink my hands and body down his was something that will forever be burned into my memory. His eyes blown out with lust, his chest rapidly heaving up and down from excitement, his lips parted as he took quick breaths. Like this was exactly what he had imagined it to be.

I traced my hands over his crotch. Lightly tapping my fingers against the tented fabric. I could see goose bumps forming on his skin as he adjusted himself in his seat, still not totally believing what was happening. My breathing quickened as well. Lips parted just like his as I reached for the button on his jeans. I undid it and the zipper agonizingly slow. I looked up at him and smirked. I could tell that the teasing was something he loved but needed to be over with already.

I pulled his pants down as much as I could before toying with the waistline of his underwear. I slowly wrapped my fingers around it and slid it down as well. His dick popped out from underneath the fabric. I whimpered at the sight of it. Long and hard. Just waiting to be played with. My breathing quickened. I had always imagined what it looked like especially after hearing rumors that he was the largest in the band. But, I never thought I would see it in front of me.

A switch flipped in my head. I was no longer worried about the repercussions of this. Those didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was that I showed this man that I had been pining over for so long just how much he meant to me and just how much I wanted to make him feel good.

I wrapped my fingers around his shaft and he winced at the slightly cold touch. I apologized and began moving them up and down. Creating a very slow rhythm. I adjusted myself so my mouth was closer to his cock. I kitten licked the tip of it and his eyes fluttered shut. His mouth opening a little wider in the process. I kept licking it. Small, almost silent moans fell from his lips.

I wrapped my mouth around his head and he let out a grunt at the warmth that now surrounded a small part of him. My hand was still working him slowly as I lowered my mouth down on him more. Taking as much of him as I possibly could. I made a new rhythm with my mouth. Quicker than my hand.

At times, I would take my hands away and place them on the top of his thighs. Just using my mouth to work him. He let out multiple moans and grunts at my actions. Encouraging me to keep going. I could feel my pulse between my legs as the wetness there grew. I made my eyes as big as they could go and looked up at him innocently. When he made eye contact with me, his hips involuntarily bucked upwards into my mouth. I let out a small sigh at how hot that was. How much he wanted to fuck me and my mouth. How he didn't want to let out his dominating side just yet and let me have my way with him.

I always took him as one to be more dominating than he let on. But, now I had proof. At the first sign of my submissiveness, his body couldn't handle itself.

"Fuck," he moaned out, making me moan against him. It turned me on so much to know that he was liking this. His hand tangled in my hair. Faintly pushing me further onto his cock. It worked a little and his head was thrown back in pleasure. His moans increased in volume as I kept working him with my mouth. "Gonna cum," he warned me and I popped off of him. He looked confused and hurt at my sudden halt.

"Not until you fuck me," I said. Tracing down his spit-covered dick with my index finger. He let out a noise that I could only describe as a small growl.

"Holy shit," he replied in a whisper as his chest heaved up and down some more.

"How about we go in the bedroom?" I offered. Trying to act as innocent as possible. He nodded frantically and I stood up. Reaching my hand out for him to take. He gladly wrapped his fingers around mine as I led him into my room. As soon as I opened the door, I was very glad that I had cleaned up all of the Queen stuff yesterday. I didn't want there to be any wasted time between now and when his dick is inside me.

I pulled him up to the bed and I plopped down on it. He looked a little silly with his pants down to the tops of his thighs and his cock standing at full attention out in the open. I giggled a little as he stared down at me. He was frozen now, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. I sat up on the bed.

"What is it?" I asked, placing my hand on his hip.

"I just- Are you sure that you want this?" He wanted to make sure that I was comfortable even when his dick was just about ready to burst. I fluttered my eyes at him.

"I want you," I said as I pulled off my shirt, revealing the black bra I was wearing underneath. "More specifically," I kept going as I tossed the shirt to the side of the bed. I looked back up at him and made direct eye contact. "I want you to fuck me better than anyone you've ever fucked before." My eyes were wide and blown out just like his. I heard him whimper at my statement.

My hands moved down to my pants and I undid them. Pulling them off my legs and throwing them away to join my shirt. Once I was just down to my underwear, I laid back, letting my head rest against the pillow and I just stared at him. Waiting for him to join me.

"You know, I think you're a bit overdressed for this," I smirked. He scrambled to get his clothes off until he had nothing on. Throwing bits of fabric everywhere in my room. Completely discarding them without a care in the world. He pounced onto the bed and hovered above me. Planting a searing kiss to my lips. We sat there kissing for a bit before my hands moved to my back to unclasp my bra.

With one quick motion, I pulled it off and threw it on the floor. He stared down at my breasts. Taking them in before diving down to kiss them gently. Praising my body the entire time.

"You're so beautiful. Fuck, I can't believe we're going to do this. You don't know how much I want this." Praises dripping from his lips as his tongue brushed over my nipples and he sucked on the skin around and on my breasts. He kissed lower as well. Trailing kisses down my torso until he got to my panties. Completely soaked through and ruined.

He kissed my hipbones before taking my panties off the throwing them to the side as well. He stared at my pussy before diving in a planting chaste kisses on my clit. I moaned at the feeling of his mouth on me, but I needed to have him now.

"As much as I love that," I started breathlessly. "I need you inside me right fucking now. We can do that later if we want." He didn't need to be told twice as he hovered over me once again. Kissing my cheekbones and jawline as he lined himself up to my entrance. Dragging his tip along my wet folds before completely entering me in one, slow motion.

He moaned into the crook of my neck and I moaned along with him. I felt so full and he was already so deep inside me. My tightness around him made it even more pleasurable for him that he would have imagined. He started pumping in and out of me. Full, deep strokes. Not too fast and not too slow.

We both were letting out loud, almost pornographic moans at the feeling of being wrapped around one another. Not before long, his pace quickened. I loved the feeling as he was hitting my G-spot over and over again perfectly. His length filling me up so much that I could practically feel him in my stomach.

Curses were whispered into each other's skin as we placed loving kisses on each other's faces and shoulders through this whole process. Making sure the other person knew how much they were loved and appreciated. Then, his thrusts got sloppy.

"Are you close, baby?" I asked. He nodded into me.

"Yes, love," he replied, completely out of breath.

"Want you to pull out, okay?" He nodded again. "Good." I started to move my hand down to help my own orgasm along, but he felt it move and he stopped that from happening. Grabbing my wrist and yanking it away. Instead, his hand attached to my clit and started rubbing fast circles into me, making me scream out at the feeling.

"That's it," he whispered. His pace continued until I was just at the edge. My moans increasing in pitch. His thrusts quickened as well to get closer to the edge with me. That was when I exploded all over his cock. Spasming under him and becoming a moaning mess. My eyes fluttering back into my head as my mouth was opened in a perfect O-shape. I tightened around his dick and that gave him everything he needed. He pulled out quickly and with a few pumps of his hand, he came all over my stomach. His hot seed spilling against my fiery skin.

His moans and grunts were just as overwhelming and loud as mine. They were so hot that they almost sent me over the edge for the second time. He flopped onto the bed next to me and cuddled up against me. We both tried to calm our breathing while the warm stench of sex filled the air.

I was the first to return to normal. Turning my head toward him and planting kisses all over his face. He gave me a tired smile as his eyes closed.

"Don't go to sleep yet," I whispered. "Someone has to clean me up."

"Oh yeah," he laughed. "I'm on it." He got up from the bed and ran into the bathroom to grab a washcloth. He came back and stood over my fucked-out body. "It might be cold," he warned before pressing it to my skin. I winced at the cold cloth hitting my body, but I was cleaned up in no time. And he was cuddling up against me again within a minute.

"That was pretty good," I said as I placing a kiss on his cheek.

"Just pretty good?" He teased.

"Well, I only came once, so I can't really judge it yet."I joked.  He laughed and I scooted closer to him on the bed. "I'm sorry I was being such a bitch earlier. In fact, the whole time you've been here. I really don't know what I was thinking. We should have been doing this for a long time."

"It's alright," he responded. "We're here now. And I might even say that it was pretty damn good." We both chuckled and then the tone got a bit more serious. "Does this mean I can sleep in your bed tonight?"

"This means you can sleep in my bed every night from now on," he smiled as he leaned in for a kiss. We lovingly exchanged one before his eyes closed again.

"I'm pretty tired now," he chuckled.

"Me too," I replied as I nuzzled my head into the crook of his neck. We fell asleep shortly after and it was one of the best night's rest I've had in a very long time.

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Masterlist

[ready8210]

“Let me in your heart again”

1. He hates me

Vivian

Munich / Germany - Musicland Studios

I nervously pluck my blouse, sitting in the sparing lobby of Munich's „Musicland Studios", as I wait for the first "meeting" with my future „boss", no less than QUEEN.

You've read correctly. QUEEN! I can't get my head around it yet.

The band was searching for a photographer, to document the tour life and studio work of their upcoming "works" album and their following world - tour, which would later lead them - or should I say US - from Europe, over Asia, Australia to America and Africa.

I was one of the lucky ones, the band and management put on the shortlist in late October, last year. A view weeks later, I was informed that it was me, who would attend the band for the next two years.

Two years, I think to myself, wrinkling my brows in disbelief.

At this moment I don't know if I am incredible lucky or should be scared.

I still desperately try to smooth out the wrinkles on my pastel - yellow blouse, as I nervously scan the room. Leaning back in an uncomfortable armchair, I inhale deep as I gaze over my chosen outfit.

Earlier today I was frustrated standing in front of my closet, throwing around varying outfits, unable to decide what to wear for my meeting with the band.

What would one wear when meeting Queen?

I racked my brain this morning, that would change my whole life.

Needles to say I didn't come to an answer.

After one hour of putting on nearly all content of my wardrobe, I decided to go for casual and simple. I really didn't want to look like an applicant for a secretary job.

I wear that pastel yellow sleeveless blouse I already mentioned 2 times (you have to excuse, I'm extremely nervous), paired with light blue skinny jeans and simple pumps. My wavy hazelnut brown hair is put into a ponytail on this hot July summer day.

Fiddling with the strap of my bag, I hear a door open and dull music echoing in the hallways of the oppressive building.

It is QUEEN, I recognize immediately, forming a smile on my lips.

The music reaches my ears as I am leaning myself forward, trying to get closer to the source of sound.

There it is, the mesmerizing voice of the one and only Freddie Mercury, bringing on goosebumps all over my body. I cling to the armrest, on the chair I am sitting in, as the door closes and the sound fades all to fast.

As you can imagine, this last event didn't lessen my massive nervousness.

You now may've recognized for whom of the four bandmates my heart beats.

In certain circumstances this may change within the next hour. But it don't want to anticipate things.

„Miss Kurzmann" a monotone voice behind a to high counter tears me from my thoughts. „Mr Beach will arrive in about 15 minutes. Can I offer you some tee, coffee or water in the meantime?"

„Just water, thank you" I respond barely audible, biting on my lip. I couldn't handle more at the current stage of my tense mood.

15 minutes. Great. 15 minutes unsuccessfully trying to cool down my nerves, to later make a "smooth" impression.

"Here you go, Ms", I hear the monotone voice again, coming closer, handing me my water.

She's a quiet conservative dressed, middle aged woman, wearing her grey curly hair in a shoulder-length bob. The kind of person, you wouldn't expect to work in a studio, with an endless coming and going of superstars.

Otherwise today its me, sitting in that exact same front hall.

I am by all means far from being conservative, but at the same time, even more far from being some "rockstar material".

The reserved type, always taking a backseat and avoiding the spotlight like wolves the fire.

Ok, I have to confess "reserved" is an understatement. I'm hopelessly shy, especially when it comes to situations like today. Not that I would experience something like this every day.

The only possible outcome for today is disaster.

"Ok, time to relax Viv, you already have the bloody job. Get a grip!!" I quietly whisper, trying to convince myself for the remaining time sitting there.

"Still 11 minutes to go" I mumble, as I look at my watch with trembling hands.

"Your first time?" A voice from the other end of the room brings me back to reality.

"Please excuse me, is it your first time working for a band like Queen?" She quickly continuous.

All I can manage as response, is putting on a tortured smile while nodding almost invisible.

"Don't worry Ms, the band is absolutely thrilled by your photographs and barely can await to finally meet you. And by the way, they won't give you a hard time. They're all relaxed, down to earth guys.

Relaxed,.... so the complete opposite of me, it crosses my mind, as I stare at my watch again.

"9 minutes" I whisper, while watching visitors entering the building.

I hesitantly sip on my water, to not look to helpless and lost and to somehow BRIDGE the DAMN REMAINING 9 MINUTES. Please excuse my little emotional outburst.

Ok Viv....

Oh, crap! Now I realize, I haven't introduced myself to you.

I'll cut it short.

I'm Vivian Kurzmann, 33 years old/young (it's up to you to decide), born and raised in Germany, living in London, in the middle of a divorce, freelance photographer with passion and right now on a kamikaze mission.

"Ok Viv. Think about ways to relax!" I tell myself a tad to loud.

"Excuse me? You need something Ms?" It echoes in the room.

"Oh, I'm ...I was just reading something". To cover up my little white lie, I grab the first magazine I can find, from a massive steel table, right in front of me.

Under extreme tension, I flip through the magazine, without even realizing what I'm looking at.

Maybe I find an article about reducing stress in here?

Come on Viv, figure something out. I try to remember while laying back the unhelpful piece of paper.

"Autogenic training!" I mumble. Wrong time wrong place. Don't be ridiculous.

"Smoking?" Yes, I smoke now and than, an awful habit, I know. I decide to quit smoking for today, not wanting to risk to smell like a bilgy ashtray.

"Meditation, Yoga, ...." Google shows me some options on my phone, which I grabbed earlier to soothe my trembling hands.

"Very helpful fuc*** World Wide Web. I cannot possibly roll out my yoga mat in here and do the downward dog." I mutter and shut google down.

Taking a quick look on my phone, I realize: 4 more minutes to go.

Breath Viv, you can do this!!!!! I remind myself over and over again in my mind, that goes absolutely crazy at the very moment.

"Ms Kurzmann, Mr Beach has arrived and will be here in a minute." the nice woman informs me.

Nodding confirmative I gasp a simple "thank you."

Time stretches like chewing gum, as I finally hear a male voice approaching me. "Ms Kurzmann, I welcome you to the "Musicland Studios". I'm delighted to finally meet you in person. I'm already a big fan and admirer of your work." a brightly smiling, effusive gesticulating man surprises me, holding out his hand to me.

"Oh excuse me Ms. My name is Jim Beach."

"Kurzmann, the pleasure's all mine." I babble, while standing up way to fast, almost bumping into him.

Where's the exit? Last chance to do a runner. I helplessly look around. I must look like turkeys voting for christmas, at least I feel this way.

Mr. Beach wastes no time, taking me along the gloomy corridors towards the studio where the band is recording. "I will introduce you to the band to get to know each other and have a quick talk. Let me tell you, you really made an impression." He winks at me walking besides me. "May I ask you to take you to my office afterwards. I would like to discuss the business side and do the paperwork?"

As I stammer a convincing "sure", we reach the door of our destination, noticing, considering the amount of noise and swearing, a heated discussion reaches its peak.

Mr beach opens the door, rolling his eyes while he whispers at me "please excuse this....rockstars at work."

I can't bite back a chuckle, as the door swings open.

"Guys I want to introduce you to Ms Kurzmann." He shouts.

For a split of a second I want to curl up and die.

Much to my reassurance, the band don't even recognize the two intruders and continue their argument.

The man at my side now starts to get uneasy and tenses up, as he screams again. "DAMN GUYS!!!!"

I quickly notice the heat growing in my cheeks, as all eyes lay on us. No, on ME.

Viv, damn, now of all times. Think about ....ice....no, Antarctica, .....uh. FU**

I can only let my gaze wander for a view seconds and take in the room, as a sympathetically grinning young man, with blonde tousled hair and sunglasses - I guess the sun always shines for him, even in a pitch black cellar - room. - sprints towards me, with joyfulness and flings his arms around my neck. "Hi sweetie. Vivian, right? I'm Roger. Roger Taylor, the drummer of the pack." He sputters, as he steps back again, while turning to face the band and rolling his eyes in annoyance.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Taylor." I smile at him bashfully.

"I'll call you Viv...can I call you Viv?" I'm just Roger." He grins, with the brightest smile he can pull of.

"Alright, just Roger ." I joke, unable to suppress a giggle.

"Brian, come over!" He shouts to a large, lean man with a giant mane of brown curly hair.

The shaggy man puts down his guitar, leaning it against the wall and strolls towards me, kindly smiling, reaching out his hand for me. "Ms Kurzmann, it's a pleasure. I'm Brian May."

I like him already. He has this strongly soothing impact. At this moment....priceless.

"Vivian Kurzmann, my pleasure." I reply affectionately.

Viv, you're almost done, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale...it wheels in my head.

Suddenly a shyly smiling man with guitar, is standing in front of me and introduces himself as John Deacon, the bassist of the group. "Miss Kurzmann, welcome to chaos." He jokes.

"I'm very pleased to meet you Mr Deacon." I give him a handshake, a bit to long as I try to interpret his restrained smile.

I think I like John Deacon, he's just like me. Exaggerated shy and reserved. My clone.

I neglect the fact that this man is a music genius!

"FREDDIE, what the hell takes you this long? Take your ass over here!!! I hear the blonde yell behind the mixing console, interrupting my thoughts.

Ok. The time has come. Breeeeath! Don't get hysterical. I internally scream. There's still some hope, this will work out right.

After a while, what seemed like eternity, no less than Freddie Mercury in flash and bone, appears in the room.

Like a tiger on prowl, he paces at me with slow, cautious moves, his lips formed into a devilish grin.

I can swear everything happens in slow motion.

I can feel his eyes - oh yes, his eyes, his beautiful big brown oceans, framed by those incredible long lashes, I could sink into right now - examine every inch of my trembling body as he spits out words, that break down my idyllic world.

"So you're the one to trample on my privacy from now on, like any greedy paparazzi, reporter and journalist out there?" He hisses while hesitating to reach his hand out to me.

I suppose that means FREDDIE MERCURY HATES ME??!!

As he construes my slack jawed and shocked expression, he continues in a dismissive tone.

"I think you know who I am, but what's your name again?

Pulling my hand away that won't receive a handshake from Freddie Mercury today, I stutter "Kurz.....Vi Vivian Kurzmann."

"Kurz Vivian Kurzmann?" he apes me, grinning cheekily, waiting for me to break down.

"This will be fun." He laughs, while shaking his head and stepping back.

STOP! Can we go back please? That's not how I fantasized this!

The thoughts in my head ride a rollercoaster when my stomach cramps at the last spoken words, still echoing in my head.

Everything feels unreal, as I stand there, watching everything in a haze.

Before I can realize what happens, he continues with a disdainfully look on his face.

"To get it straight. I'm not thrilled by the fact someone is chasing me day after day, to document every fucking move I make. I really appreciate my privacy and want you to respect this. No photos beyond the studio and the venues. Got it?"

This will be the most horrible two years of world history. Freddie Mercury hates me.

As he turns round and starts to stroll away and I almost pass out, I begin to stammer

"Mr Mercury I assure that your privacy and the privacy of everybody involved is crucial to me and I..."

„I find this a little hard to believe, considering you do the same like any fucking journalist. Dig around in others life's and take what you can get." he spits at me and turns his back on me.

Bracing up one last time, I start to answer him, as I hear John entering the conversation

"Freddie, calm down. Don't give that pure girl such a hard time."

Freddie disdainfully gazes at me one last time, before he enters the side room.

I can feel a hand on my shoulder, as I come back to reality. „He has his moods. Don't worry, in a view days he will be fine with it and won't cause any trouble." John is trying to calm me.

All I can manage is to nod like an idiot, still standing there, paralyzed from shock.

As I let my eyes wander around the room, Mr Beach stands behind me. He must have left the studio for our short encounter and came back at this disastrous moment.

„Ms Kurzmann, may I walk you out" he asks me politely. „I love to." I answer quickly, in a relieved voice. I just want get out of here. Somewhere far away from the predator, that just rent me.

John, Brian and Roger farewell me, cheering me up by telling me how they're looking forward, working with me.

„Don't worry about our little diva, Viv. He will calm down." Roger nudges me from the side.

„You'll see, he's not that bad." Brian encourages me calmly.

„Unless his shadow follows him." a joking Roger lets out.

„Shadow?" I can manage to ask, confusion washing over my now chalk white face.

„PAUL" they all shout, rolling their eyes in unison, before bursting out laughing.

As I want to dig deeper, Mr Beach interrupts us. „Ms Kurzmann..?" Turning towards him I notice,, he already stands besides the open door, waiting for me to follow him.

I turn to face the boys again. "See you in a view." I wink towards them, as I leave the room.

Disappointed, I couldn't take a closer look to the studio and the band working, I make my way out, following Mr. Beach.

A nice bunch of men, I think to myself, as we walk down the barren corridor, were it not for my new nemesis.

As I told you. Disaster.

Part 2 will follow soon.

Also published on wattpad:

[atenementfunster]

all the more reason, chapter 2

ao3 link here!

Roger Taylor, dead as a doorknob, and his best friend John Deacon (also dead) meet some blokes who are decidedly NOT. Dead, that is.

(aka that ghost au that no one asked for, featuring Gay Panic™, John’s sass, and Brian being too endearing for this world. the overall vibe of the fic is not sad, if that’s a concern for you!)

It’s not enough.

Roger can’t stop thinking about him. The feel of fingers on his skin like a livewire, ready to ignite any waiting spark. Warm eyes, sloped back, every inch of him delicate, like he’s worried the world around him is a breakable thing. Torture, basically, is what Roger is currently experiencing; want over something he might not ever get. Plus, the dead don’t sleep, so that level of reprieve is non-existent.

Someone else would call this infatuation. Roger just calls it - well, it’s a bit of an infatuation, actually, but his reasoning is sound. He’s not crazy, he’s just normally an invisible man among those still enjoying the luxuries of everyday life. The fact that one of said people can see him? And didn’t run screaming for the hills?

Roger’s allowed to be just a little bit in love with him.

The professor at the front of the hall shifts her lecture from ecological interactions to biomechanics, and Roger rises from the floor with a grunt. University is usually a good follow up to a long night (full of brooding, as John rudely put it), but even the core marine biology lectures can’t keep his attention. He’s wandering halls he’s only known the past year, going through doors he’s never touched. It’s a reminder, and not always a painful one; sometimes it’s nice to realize he can go wherever he wants with no penalty. Not being chained to one major, learning what he wants on his own time, and no deadlines as far as the eye can see? The only downside is he had to be literally dead to experience it.

It’s raining, which of course doesn’t matter, and Roger makes his way from the science building over to the design hall, hands in his pockets and eyes cast to the sky.

“How is it,” a voice says behind him, “that you barely made it to class while you were alive, but now that you’re dead you can’t stay away?”

“I liked sleep,” Roger says, deadpan, but chases it with a grin. “Come off, I was a good student. Don’t be jealous.”

Crystal ruffles his hair, bangs pouring over into his eyes. Roger swats at him and kicks his ankle.

“You look like an angry tomcat,” is the reply as Chris Taylor steps to the side, gracefully avoiding tripping over the curb. Roger sees it, and still manages to stumble a bit as he straightens his hair.

“And whose fault is that anyway?”

“Yours you twit, shoulda cut it when you had the chance.”

Roger shoves him further into the street, then fluffs his hair with a saunter. “Looking a little green there, Chris.”

“You wish.”

They walk in amicable silence, the rain easing up to a light mist. Students and professors alike brave the slick sidewalks, some with their bags over their manicured hair, others just bothering with their upturned collars. For a time, reflex caught Roger doing the same, but he’s long since moved past it. Now the chill is only imagined, and if he closes his eyes, sometimes he can pretend he can feel the moisture as it tickles his cheeks.

When he opens them, he sees a striking head of damp curls, and walks into a pole.

“Forget how to walk through ‘em, mate?” Crystal says on a laugh, hand out to steady him. Roger, holding his aching face, spins and hides behind the closest thing he can find, which is a post box.

Crystal now, naturally, thinks his friend had lost his mind.

“Also forget the part where they can't see you?”

“Shut up,” Roger grouses, but doesn't rise. “Of all the bloody odds.” Is the man stalking him? Can you die twice? Is he legitimately insane?

While Roger is enjoying a spiritual and emotional crisis, Crystal calls out over his head, “oh, hello, John. Ignore him, he’s off his rocker today.”

Roger stands up so fast his hair gets in his mouth. “Deaky!”

Said man is staring at him with one delicate brow arched, hands on his hips as he looks at him with thinly veiled judgement. Before he can speak, however, Roger steamrolls over him.

“It's him! With the hair, and long fingers!”

Too much, and too high-pitched.

“Oh, so it is. Small world.” He sounds like Roger's just told him a fun fact about marsupials.

“Damn it, John!” There is zero shame in stomping his foot in a situation like this.

“Okay, someone planning on filling me in?” Crystal asks, waving his hands for emphasis.

“See that student over there, mess of curly hair?” John points him out as he hops the curb and makes his way over to the quad, indifferent to the drizzle overhead. “Looks like he’s going to the library, Roger. That's perfect.”

“Nothing about this is perfect.” He resolutely turns his back on the man, arms crossed and feet planted.

The look that John gives him is withering. “Rog here has an admirer.”

Crystal blinks. “That bloke's dead? Looked pretty alive and well to me.”

“He does indeed.”

“Listen, the two of you,” Roger all but shouts, turning on them with a glare. “If I have to hunt him down and prove to you that what happened yesterday was a fluke, then fine.”

John waves his hand in front of him, a beckoning gesture of royalty. “By all means.”

The noise that comes out of Roger's mouth is, quite frankly, inhuman, but away he goes. John and Crystal follow, the former a picture of calm and the latter of confusion. The head of hair and long legs they're following has a quick stride, but they see him duck into the uni library easily enough. Roger manages to walk through the door and not into it, so that's helpful at least, and soon they're face to face with the familiar Imperial London College library.

“He's over there,” John says, pointing over Roger's shoulder. Sure enough, he’s at an old mahogany desk, pulling papers out of his waterlogged bag.

Before either of them can saying anything more to piss him off, Roger walks toward him, doing his best to ignore the butterflies beating hell on his ribcage.

“Uh, hey.”

Roger would like nothing more than to sink into the floor.

The man looks up, mouth slightly ajar, eyes lighting up in recognition after a moment’s pause. “Oh, hi,” he says, tone light with mild surprise. There's dots of dew still clinging to his curly locks, haloing his head like so many stars.

Roger stares, licks his lips, and says absolutely nothing. He can still see him. He can still see him. John is right, or maybe Crystal is, maybe he's insane. Maybe his eyes just aren't working right, or he just died recently and doesn't know he's dead, god, wouldn't that be tragic -

One thought cuts through the chaos, errant but demanding. It means something.

“Just,” Roger blurts, a little too loud for the setting, and a little too delayed for normal conversation. “Wanted to apologize for yesterday. Saw you from the biology section and figured I should, y’know. Was a little off, yesterday, felt stupid.”

Every word comes easier, and by now the bemused grin is natural.

The man, whose expression had been rather locked tight, eases. He smiles, a little thing, and says “no harm done. You alright then? Seemed a bit shaken up.”

“Yeah - yeah no, I'm fine,” Roger says quickly, tucking one hand deep in his pocket. “Weird day is all. Got a bad habit of not looking where I'm going half the time, drives my mates nuts.” Under normal circumstances, anyone bumping into him like might've resulted in a fistfight on a bad day, a brash insult on a good one. But those weren't exactly those sort of circumstances.

“I'm Roger, by the way, Roger Taylor.” Holding his hand out over the desk is one of the easiest and hardest things he thinks he's ever done. Simple, but the fear of rejection has never been so poignant. What will he do, if his hand just keeps on going, passing straight through?

“Brian May. A pleasure.”

His grip is soft and warm, and Roger makes sure to let go before it becomes awkward, even though he never wants to. His fingers tingle as his hand drops to his sides. To keep from saying something ridiculous like how are you so pretty or thanks for touching me, he asks, “I don't think I've seen you around, what do you study?”

“Oh,” Brian says, eyebrows up as he looks down at his notes and the two big books they're resting on. “Astrophysics. Interplanetary dust, actually. Got the midterm coming up, so,” he adds, waving a hand at the notes. Roger is only half listening, thoughts still focused on the feel of his hand in his.

“Right,” Roger says. “Mine are too.”

He hears a muffled “oh Lord” behind him, and it takes everything in his power not to turn around and glare. “Should probably get back to it, actually,” he says, raking a hand through his hair. “Hopefully I'll see you around?”

“Definitely. Good luck on yours,” Brian says with a sweet smile. His downcast eyes don't really feel like a dismissal, especially when, as Roger turns, he looks back up at him and quirks another smile, almost like a secret.

Roger is incredibly fucked.

[mattchase82]

The Nativity of St. John the Baptist from the Liturgical Year, 1904

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The Voice of one crying in the wilderness, "Prepare ye the way of the Lord; behold thy God (Is. xl. 3-9)!" Oh! in this world of ours grown now so cold, who can understand earth's transports, at hearing these glad tidings so long expected? The promised God was not yet manifested; but already have the heavens bowed down (Ps. xvii. 10), to make way for His passage. No longer was He "the One Who is to come," He for whom our fathers, the illustrious saints of the prophetic age ceaselessly called, in their indomitable hope. Still hidden, indeed, but already in our midst, He was resting beneath that virginal cloud compared with which, the heavenly purity of Thrones and Cherubim wax dim; yea, the united fires of burning Seraphim grow faint, in presence of the single love wherewith she alone encompasses Him in her human heart, she that lowly daughter of Adam whom He had chosen for His mother. Our accursed earth, made suddenly more blessed far than yonder heaven so long inexorably closed to suppliant prayer, awaited only that the august mystery should be revealed; the hour was come for earth to join her canticles to that eternal and divine praise, which henceforth was ever rising from her depths, and which being itself no other than the Word Himself, would celebrate God condignly. But beneath the veil of humility where His divinity, even after as well as before his birth, must still continue to hide itself from men, who may discover the Emmanuel? who, having recognized him in His merciful abasements, may succeed in making him accepted by a world lost in pride? who may cry, pointing out the Carpenter's Son (St. Matth. xiii. 55), in the midst of the crowd: Behold Him Whom your fathers have so wistfully awaited!

.

For such is the order decreed from on high, in the manifestation of the Messias. Conformably to the Ways of men, the God-Man would not intrude Himself into public life; He would await, for the inauguration of His divine ministry, some man who having preceded him in a similar career, would be hereby sufficiently accredited, to introduce Him to the people.

.

Sublime part for a creature to play, to stand guarantee for his God, witness for the Word! The exalted dignity of him who was to fill such a position, had been notified, as had that of the Messias, long before his birth. In the solemn liturgy of the Age of types, the Levite choir, reminding the Most High of the meekness of David and of the promise made to him of a glorious heir, hailed from afar the mysterious lamp prepared by God for His Christ (Ps. cxxxi. 17) Not that, to give light to His steps, Christ should stand in need of external help: He, the Splendour of the Father, had only to appear in these dark regions of ours, to fill them with the effulgence of the very heavens; but so many false glimmerings had deceived mankind, during the night of these ages of expectation, that had the true Light arisen on a sudden, it would not have been understood, or would have but blinded eyes now become well nigh powerless, by reason of protracted darkness, to endure its brilliancy. Eternal Wisdom therefore decreed that just as the rising sun is announced by the morning-star, and prepares his coming by the gently tempered brilliancy of aurora; so Christ, who is Light should be preceded here below, by a star, His precursor; and his approach be signalized by the luminous rays which He himself, (though still invisible) would shed around this faithful herald of His coming. When, in by-gone days, the Most-High vouchsafed to light up, before the eyes of his prophets, the distant future, that radiant flash which for an instant shot across the heavens of the old covenant, melted away in the deep night, and ushered not in, as yet, the longed-for dawn. The "morning-star" of which the psalmist sings, shall know naught of defeat: declaring unto night that all is now over with her, he will dim his own fires only in the triumphant splendour of the Sun of Justice. Even as aurora melts into day, so will he confound with Light increased, his own radiance; being of himself, like every creature, nothingness and darkness, he will so reflect the brilliancy of the Messias shining immediately upon him, that many will mistake him even for the very Christ (St. Luke, iii. 15).

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The mysterious conformity of Christ and His Precursor, the incomparable proximity which unites one to the other, are to be found many times marked down in the sacred scriptures. If Christ is the Word, eternally uttered by the Father, he is to be the Voice bearing this divine utterance whithersoever it is to reach; Isaias already hears the desert echoing with these accents, till now unknown; and the prince of prophets expresses his joy, with all the enthusiasm of a soul already beholding itself in the very presence of its Lord and God (St. Luke, iii. 15). The Christ is the Angel of the Covenant; but in the very same text wherein the Holy Ghost gives Him this title, for us so full of hope, there appears likewise bearing the same name of angel, the inseparable messenger, the faithful ambassador, to whom the earth is indebted for her coming to know the Spouse: Behold, I send My angel, and he shall prepare the way before My face. And presently the Lord Whom ye seek, and the Angel of the testament whom you desire, shall come to His Temple; behold he cometh, saith the Lord of hosts (Malach. iii. 1). And putting an end to the prophetic ministry, of which he is the last representative, Malachias terminates his own oracles by the words which we have heard Gabriel addressing to Zachary, when he makes known to him the approaching birth of the Precursor (Ibid. iv. 5-6).

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The presence of Gabriel, on this occasion, of itself shows with what intimacy with the Son of God, this child then promised shall be favoured; for the very same Prince of the heavenly hosts, came again, soon afterwards, to announce the Emmanuel. Countless are the faithful messengers that press around the throne of the Holy Trinity, and the choice of these august ambassadors usually varies, according to the dignity of the instructions, to be transmitted to earth by the Most High. Nevertheless, it was fitting that the same archangel charged with concluding the sacred Nuptials of the Word with the Human Nature, should likewise prelude this great mission by preparing the coming of him whom the eternal decrees had designated as the Friend of the Bridegroom (St. John, iii. 29). Six months later, on his deputation to Mary, he strengthens his divine message, by revealing to that purest of Virgins, the prodigy, which had by then, already given a son to the sterile Elizabeth; this being the first step of the Almighty towards a still greater marvel. John is not yet born; but without longer delay, his career is begun: he is employed to attest the truth of the angels promises. How ineffable this guarantee of a child hidden as yet in his mother's womb, but already brought forward as God's witness, in that sublime negotiation which at that moment is holding heaven and earth in suspense! Illumined from on high, Mary receives the testimony and hesitates no longer. Behold the handmaid of the Lord, says she to the archangel, be it done unto me, according to thy word (St. Luke, i).

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Gabriel has retired, bearing away with him the divine secret which he has not been commissioned to reveal to the rest of the world. Neither will the most prudent Virgin herself tell it; even Joseph, her virginal Spouse, is to receive no communication of the mystery from her lips. Yet fear not; the woeful sterility beneath which earth has been so long groaning, is not to be followed by an ignorance more sorrow-stricken still, now that it has yielded its fruit (Ps. lxxxiv. 13). There is one from whom Emmanuel will have no secret, nor reserve; it were fitting to reveal the marvel unto him. Scarce has the Spouse taken possession of the sanctuary all spotless, wherein the nine months of his first abiding amongst men, must run their course, yea, scarce has the Word been made Flesh, than Our Lady, inwardly taught what is her Son's desire, arising, makes all haste to speed into the hill-country of Judea (St. Luke, i. 39). The voice of my Beloved! Behold he cometh, leaping upon the mountains, skipping over the hills (Cantic. ii. 8). His first visit is to the "Friend of the Bridegroom," the first out-pour of His graces is to John. A distinct feast will allow us to Honor in a special manner, the precious day on which the divine Child, sanctifying his Precursor, reveals himself to John, by the voice of Mary; the day on which Our Lady, manifested by John, leaping within the womb of his mother, proclaims at last the wondrous things operated within her, by the Almighty, according to the merciful promise which he spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and to his seed for ever (St. Luke, i. 55).

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But the time is come, when the good tidings are to spread, from children and mothers, through all the adjacent country, until at length they reach the whole world. John is about to be born, and, whilst still himself unable to speak, he is to loosen his father's tongue. He is to put an end to that dumbness, with which the aged priest, a type of the old law, had been struck by the angel; and Zachary, himself filled with the Holy Ghost, is about to publish in a new canticle, the blessed visit of the Lord God of Israel. (Ibid. i. 68).

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The hymn which follows, furnishes the Church with a beautiful formula of prayer and praise. There are few pieces so famous as this, in the holy liturgy. Its composition is attributed to Paul the Deacon, a monk of Monte Cassino, in the eighth century; and the story attached to it, is particularly touching. Honoured with that sacred order the very title of which remains through the course of ages inseparably linked with his name, Paul Warnefrid, the friend of Charlemagne and the historian of the Lombards, was on a certain occasion, deputed to bless the paschal candle, the triumphal appearance whereof, yearly announces to Holy Church, the Resurrection of the Spouse. Now it happened, that whilst he was preparing himself for this function, the most solemn of those reserved to the Levites of the New Testament, he suddenly lost his voice, until then clear and sonorous, so that, he was powerless to sound forth the glad notes of the Exsultet. In this extremity, Paul recollected himself; and turning to Saint John, patron at once of the Lombard nation and of that Church built by Saint Benedict at the top of the holy mount, he invoked him whose birth had put a stop to the dumbness of his own father, and who still preserves his power of restoring to " vocal chords their lost suppleness." The son of Zachary heard his devout client. Such was the origin of the harmonious strophes which now form the three hymns proper to this feast.

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What is still better known, is the importance which the first of these strophes has acquired in the history of Gregorian chant and of music, The primitive air to which the hymn of Paul the Deacon was sung possessed this peculiarity, namely, that the initial syllable of each hemistich rose just one degree higher than the preceding, in the scale of sounds; thus was obtained, on bringing them together, the series of fundamental notes which form the basis of our present gamut. The custom was afterwards introduced of giving to the notes themselves, the names of these syllables: Ut, Be, Mi, Fa, Sol, La. Guido of Arezzo, in his method of teaching, originated this custom; and by completing it with the introduction of the regular lines of the musical scale, he was the cause of an immense stride being made in the science of sacred music, until then so laborious to render, and so tedious to acquire. He thus acknowledged that the divine Precursor, the Voice whose accents reveal to the world the harmony of the eternal canticle, ought to have the honour of having attached to his name the organization of earth's melodies.

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Hymn: Ut queant laxis

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O for thy spirit, holy John, to chasten Lips sin-polluted, fettered tongues to loosen; So by thy children might thy deeds of wonder Meetly be chanted.

Lo! a swift herald, from the skies descending, Bears to thy father promise of thy greatness; How he shall name thee, what thy future story, Duly revealing.

Scarcely believing message so transcendent, Him for season power of speech forsaketh, Till, at thy wondrous birth, again returneth Voice to the voiceless.

Thou, in thy mother's womb all darkly cradled, Knewest thy Monarch, biding in His chamber, Whence the two parents, through their children's merits, Mysteries uttered.

Praise to the Father, to the Son begotten, And to the Spirit, equal power possessing, One God whose glory, through the lapse of ages, Ever resoundeth.

At the Magnificat, let us recognize the part which our Saint had in this ineffable effusion of the Virgin Mother's sentiments, already alluded to, in the fourth strophe of the preceding hymn. These two, the Magnificat and Benedictus, our evening and morning canticles, are closely linked to the name of Saint John ; for, by his mystic "leaping for joy," and by his hallowed birth, he was the main-spring of both.

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Antiphon of the Magnificat

Zachary being come into the Temple of the Lord, there appeared unto him the Angel Gabriel standing on the right side of the altar of incense.

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Magnificat:

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My soul doth magnify the Lord. And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour. Because He hath regarded the humility of His handmaid: for, behold from henceforth all generations shall call me Blessed. Because He that is mighty hath done great things to me: and holy is His name. And His mercy is from gene ration unto generation, to them that fear him. He hath showed might in His arm He hath scattered the proud in the conceit of their heart. He hath put down the mighty from their seat and hath exalted the humble. He hath filled the hungry with good things: and the rich He hath sent empty away. He hath received Israel His servant, being mindful of His mercy. As He spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and to his seed for ever.

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Let us pray:

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O God, Who hast made this day glorious unto us on account of the Nativity of blessed John grant to thy people the grace of spiritual joys and direct the souls of all the Faithful into the way of eternal salvation, Through our Lord &c.

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Another festival is yet to come, at the end of August, calling for our renewed homage to the son of Zachary and Elizabeth; the feast, that is to say, of his glorious martyrdom. But, "venerable" as it has every right to be in our eyes, (so the Church expresses herself on that day, [Collecta diei.]) its splendour is not to be compared with that of this present festival. The reason is, because this day relates less to John himself, than to Jesus Whom he is announcing; whereas the feast of the Decollation, though more personal to our Saint, has not in the divine plan that same importance which his Birth had, inasmuch as it preludes that of the Son of God.

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There hath not risen among them that are born of women a greater than John the Baptist, are the words to be spoken by the Man-God of His Precursor (St. Matth. xi. 11); and already has Gabriel, when announcing both of them, declared the same thing of each, that he shall be great (St. Luke, i. 15-32). But the greatness of Jesus is that He shall be called the Son of the Most High, and the greatness of John is that he shall go before Him (Ibid). The name of John brought down from heaven, like that of his Master, proclaims the grace which Jesus, by saving mankind, is to bring to the world (St. Luke, i. 13-.31). Jesus Who cometh from above in person, is above all, it is He and He alone Whom all mankind is expecting; John who is of earth, on the contrary, hath nothing but what he hath received; but he hath received to be the friend of the Bridegroom (St. John iii. 27-31), his usher; so that the Bridegroom cometh not to the Bride, but by him (Ibid. i. 7).

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Yea, the Bride even cannot come to know herself, nor to prepare herself for the sacred nuptials, but by him: his preaching awakens her, in the wilderness (Cantic. viii. 5); he adorns her with the charms of penitence and all virtues; his hand, in the one baptism, at last unites her to Christ beneath the waters. Sublime moment! in which, raised far above all men and angels, John, in the midst of the Holy Trinity (Johannes totius medius Trinitatis. Petr. Dam. Sermo 23), as it were, in virtue of an authority that is his, invests the Second Person Incarnate with a new title; the Father and the Holy Ghost acting the while, in concert with him! But presently, coming down from those lofty heights, more than human, to which his mission had raised him, he is fain to disappear altogether: the Bride is become the Bridegroom's own; the joy therefore of John is full, his work is done; he has now but to efface himself and to decrease (St. John. iii. 29-30). To Jesus here manifested (Ibid. 1-31), it henceforth alone belongs to appear and to increase. Thus too, the day-star, from the feast of John's Nativity when he beams his rays upon us in all his splendour, will begin to decline from the heights of his solstice, towards the horizon; whereas Christmas will give him signal to return, to resume that upward movement which progressively restores all his fiery effulgence.

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Verily, Jesus alone is Light, the Light without which earth would remain dead; and John is but the man sent from God, without whom the Light would have remained unknown (St. John, i. 4-10). But Jesus being inseparable from John, even as day is from aurora, it is by no means astonishing that earth's gladness at John's birth should partake of something of that excited by the coming of our Redeemer. Up to the fifteenth century, the Latin Church, together with the Greeks who still continue the custom, celebrated, in the month of September, a feast called the conception of the Precursor: not that his conception was in itself holy, but because it announced the beginning of mysteries. Just in the same way, the Nativity of Saint John Baptist indeed made holy, is celebrated with so much pomp, merely because it seems to enfold within itself the Nativity of Christ, our Redeemer. It is as it were Midsummer's "Christmas Day." From the very onset, God and His Church brought about, with most delicate care, many such parallel resemblances and dependences between these two solemnities. These we are now about to study.

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God, Who in His Providence, seeks in all things, the glorification of His Word made Flesh, estimates men and centuries, by the measure of testimony they render to Christ; and this is why John is so great. For, Him whom the Prophets announced as about to come, whom the Apostles preached as already come, John, at once prophet and apostle, pointed out with his finger, exclaiming "Behold, this is He!" John, being then the witness by excellence (Ibid. 7), it is fitting that he should open that glorious period, during which for three centuries, the Church was to render to her Spouse that testimony of blood, whereby the Martyrs, after the Prophets and Apostles, whereon she is built up (Eph. ii. 20), hold the first claim to her gratitude. Just as Eternal Wisdom had decreed that the tenth and last great struggle of that epoch, should be forever linked with the Birthday of the Son of God whose triumph it secured, by the memory of the Martyrs of Nicomedia on the 25th of December, 303; so likewise does John's birthday mark the beginning of the first of those giant contests. For, the 24th of June, in the Roman Martyrology, is sacred likewise to the memory of those soldiers of Christ, who first entered upon the arena opened to them by pagan Rome, in the year 64. After the proclamation of the Nativity of the Precursor, the Church's record runs thus: "At Rome the memory of many holy Martyrs who under the Emperor Nero being calumniously accused of setting fire to the city, were at the command of the same, most cruelly put to death by divers torments; some of whom were sown up in beasts' skins and so exposed to be torn by dogs; others crucified; others set on fire, so that at the decline of day, they might serve as torches to light up the night. All these were disciples of the Apostles; and first fruits of the Martyrs offered to the Lord by the Roman Church, the fertile field of Martyrs, even before the death of the "Apostles (Martyrol. Rom. ad diem 24 Junii. Octavo Kalendas Julii)."

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The solemnity of the 24th of June, therefore, throws a double light on the early days of Christianity. There never were even then, days evil enough for the Church to belie the prediction of the Angel, that many should rejoice in the birth of John (St. Luke, i. 14); together with joy, his word, his example, his intercession, brought courage to the Martyrs. After the triumph won by the Son of God over pagan negation; when to the testimony of blood succeeded that of confession by works and praise, John maintained his part as Precursor of Christ in souls. Guide of monks, he conducts them far from the world, and fortifies them in the combats of the desert; Friend of the Bridegroom, he continues to form the Bride, by preparing unto the Lord a perfect people (St. Luke, i. 17).

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In the divers states and degrees of the Christian life, his ever needful and beneficent influence makes itself felt. At the beginning of the fourth Gospel, in the most dogmatic passage of the New Testament, not by mere accident, is John brought forward, even as heretofore at Jordan, as one closely united with the operations of the Adorable Trinity, in the universal economy of the Divine Incarnation: There was a man sent from God whose name was John, saith the Holy Ghost; he came for a witness, to give testimony of the light, That All Might Believe THROUGH HIM (St. John, 8. 6-7). "Precursor at his birth, Precursor at his death, St. John still continues," says St. Ambrose, "to march in front, before the Lord. More perhaps than we are aware of, may his mysterious action be telling on this present life of ours. When we begin to believe in Christ, there comes forth virtue, as it were, from St. John, drawing us after him: he inclines the steps of the soul towards faith; he rectifies the crooked ways of life, making straight the road of our earthly pilgrimage, lest we stray into the rugged wilds of error; he contrives so, that all our valleys be filled with the fruits of virtue, and that every elevation be brought low before the Lord (Ambr. in luc. i 38)."

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But if the Precursor maintains his part in each progressive movement of faith which brings souls nearer to Christ, he intervenes still more markedly in each baptism conferred, whereby the Bride gains increase. The baptistry is especially consecrated to him. It is true, the baptism which he gave to the crowds pressing day by day, on Jordan's banks, had never power such as Christian baptism possesses; but when he plunged the Man-God beneath the waters, they were endowed with a virtue of fecundity emanating directly from Christ, whereby they would be empowered until the end of time to complete, by the accession of new members, the Body of Holy Church united to Christ.

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The faith of our fathers never ignored the great benefits for which both individuals and nations are indebted to Saint John. So many neophytes received his name in baptism, so efficacious was the aid afforded by him in conducting his clients to sanctity, that there is not a day in the Calendar, on which there may not be honoured the heavenly birthday of one or other so named (Annus Johannis, auctore Johanne N. [Pragae, 1664]). Amongst nations, the Lombards formerly claimed Saint John as Patron, and French Canada does the same now-a-days. But whether in East or West, who could count the countries, towns, religious families, abbeys, and churches placed under this same powerful patronage: from the temple which, under Theodosius, replaced that of the ancient Serapis in Alexandria with its famous mysteries, to the sanctuary raised upon the ruins of the altar of Apollo, on the summit of Monte Cassino, by the Patriarch of monks; from the fifteen churches which Byzantium, the new Rome, consecrated within her walls in honour of the Precursor, to the august Basilica of Lateran, well worthy of its epithet, the golden Basilica, and which in the Capital of Christendom remains for ever Mother and Mistress of all churches, not alone of the City, but of the whole world! Dedicated at first to our Saviour, this latter Basilica added at an early date another title which seems inseparable from this sacred name, that of the Friend of the Bridegroom. Saint John the Evangelist, also a " friend of Jesus," whose precious death is placed by one tradition on the Twenty-fourth day of June, has likewise had his name added to the other two borne by this Basilica; but all the same, it is none the less certain, that common practice is in keeping with ancient documents, in referring, as it does, more especially to the Precursor, the title of Saint John Lateran, whereby the patriarchal Basilica of the Roman Pontiffs is always designated in these days.

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" Fitting it was," says Saint Peter Damian, "that the authority of the Bride should subscribe to the judgment of the Bridegroom, and that this latter should see his greatest Friend raised in glory there, where she is enthroned as queen. A remarkable choice is this, to be sure, whereby John is given the primacy, in the very city that is consecrated by the glorious death of the two lights of the world. Peter from his cross, Paul beneath the blade, both behold the first place held by another; Rome is clad in the purple of innumerable martyrs, and yet all her honours go straight to the blessed Precursor, "Everywhere John is the greatest (Peter Damian Sermon 23)!"

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On this day, therefore, let us too imitate Mother Church; let us avoid that obliviousness which bespeaks ingratitude; let us hail, with thanksgiving and heartfelt gladness, the arrival of him who promises our Saviour unto us. Yea, already Christmas is announced.

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To the Office of Lauds, on this day, a special importance is to be attached, because the Canticle Benedictus, which is sung during Lauds all the year round, is the very expression itself of the sentiments inspired by the Holy Ghost to the father of Saint John the Baptist, on the occasion of that Birthday which gave joy both to God and man.

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(Zachary writes down the name of John)

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Canticle of Zachary

Blessed be the Lord God of Israel: because He hath visited and wrought the redemption of His people.

And hath raised up a horn of salvation to us, in the house of David His servant.

As he spoke by the mouth of his holy Prophets, who are from the beginning.

Salvation from our enemies, and from the hand of all that hate us.

To perform mercy to our fathers, and to remember His holy testament.

The oath which He swore to Abraham, our father; that He would grant to us,

That being delivered from the hand of our enemies we may serve him without fear,

In holiness and justice before Him, all our days.

And thou child, Precursor of the Emmanuel, shalt be called the Prophet of the Most High: for thou shalt go before the face of the Lord, to prepare His ways.

To give unto His people the knowledge of salvation, unto the remission of their sins.

Through the bowels of the mercy of our God, in which the Orient from on high hath visited us:

To enlighten them that sit in darkness, and in the shadow of death; to direct our feet in the way of peace.

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Prayer:

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Precursor of the Messias, we share in the joy which thy birth brought to the world. This birth of thine announced that of the Son of God. Now, each year, our Emmanuel assumes anew His life in the Church and in souls; and in our day, just as it was eighteen hundred years ago, He wills that this birth of His shall not take place without thy preparing the way, now as then, for that nativity whereby our Saviour is given to each one of us. Scarce has the sacred cycle completed the series of mysteries whereby the glorification of the Man-God is consummated and the Church is founded, than Christmas begins to appear on the horizon; already, so to speak, does John reveal by exulting demonstrations the approach of our Infant-God. Sweet Prophet of the Most High, not yet canst thou speak, when already thou dost outstrip all the princes of prophecy; but full soon the desert will seem to snatch thee for ever from the commerce of men. Then Advent comes, and the Church will show us that she has found thee once more; she will constantly lead us to listen to thy sublime teachings, to hear thee bearing witness unto Him whom she is expecting. From this present moment, therefore, begin to prepare our souls; having descended anew on this our earth, coming as thou now dost, on this day of gladness, as the messenger of the near approach of our Saviour, canst thou possibly remain idle one instant, in face of the immense work which lies before thee to accomplish in us?

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To chase sin away, subdue vice, correct the instincts falsified in this poor fallen nature of ours; all this would have been done within us, as indeed it should long ago, had we but responded faithfully to thy past labours. Yet, alas, it is only too true, that in the greater number of us, scarce has the first turning of the soil been begun: stubborn clay, wherein stones and briers have defied thy careful toil these many years! We acknowledge it to be so, filled as we are with the confusion of guilty souls: yea, we confess our faults to thee and to Almighty God, as the Church teaches us to do, at the beginning of the great sacrifice; but, at the same time, we beseech thee with her, to pray to the Lord our God for us. Thou didst proclaim in the desert: From these very stones even, God is still able to raise up children of Abraham. Daily, do the solemn formulae of the Oblation wherein is prepared the ceaselessly renewed immolation of our Saviour tell of the honourable and important part which is thine in this august Sacrifice; thy name, again pronounced whilst the Divine Victim is present on the Altar, pleads for us sinners to the God of all mercy.

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Would that, in consideration of thy merits and of our misery, he would deign to be propitious to the persevering prayer of our mother the Church, change our hearts, and in place of evil attachments, attract them to virtue, so as to deserve for us the visit of Emmanuel! At this sacred moment of the Mysteries, when thrice is invoked, in the words of that formula taught us by thyself, the Lamb of God who taketh away the sins of the world, he, this very Lamb, will Himself have pity upon us and give us peace: peace so precious, with heaven, with earth, with self, which is to prepare us for the Bridegroom by making us become sons of God (St. John, i. 12--St. Matth. v. 9), according to the testimony which, daily, by the mouth of the priest about to quit the altar, thou continuest to renew. Then, O Precursor, will thy joy and ours be complete; that sacred union, of which this day of thy Nativity already contains for us the gladsome hope, will become, even here below and beneath the shadow of faith, a sublime reality, whilst still awaiting the clear vision.

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http://catholicharboroffaithandmorals.com/

[aham-bramasmi]

HE WAS ROUGH. HE WAS CRUDE. HIS METHODS WERE UNORTHODOX Prophet TB Joshua

Biography

Born 12 June 1963

Died 5 June 2021

Nigerian charismatic pastor, televangelist, and philanthropist. He was the leader and founder of Synagogue, Church of All Nations (SCOAN), A Christian mega church that runs the Emmanuel TV television station from Lagos. He was one of Nigeria's millionaire church pastors who fly private jets.

Joshua, then known as Balogun Francis, attended St. Stephen's Anglican Primary School in Arigidi Akoko, Nigeria, between 1971 and 1977, but failed to complete one year of secondary school education. In school, he was known as "small pastor" because of his love for the Bible. He came from a poor background and was brought up by his Muslim uncle following the death of his Christian father.

According to Joshua, he spent 15 months in his mother's womb.

His Rise To Firm

· He started his ministry in 1989.

· In the early Nineties, his performance could be characterized as that of a magician, an entertainer in the mold of popular street performers. In the early Nineties he could not preach a sermon because he couldn’t speak English.

· When he started his ministry on television in the mid-90s, his hair did not glisten, his shoes were not shiny and he did not have an American twang - he spoke with a Yoruba accent, and a mixture of English and Pidgin. He mostly wore a Jalabia - a loose-fitting garment worn by Muslims, and kept a moustache that gave him an intense look.

· He refined himself as he became wealthy, adding a fleet of cars and a private jet to look the part, but he remained an outsider.

· His followers found him charismatic and down-to-earth, and his message spread around the world.

· In recognition of his humanitarian activities, he was awarded a National Honor by the Nigerian government in 2008 as well as receiving a letter of appreciation from the United Nations.

· He was further honored as an Ambassador of Peace by the Arewa Youth Forum, a predominantly Muslim organization, as well as being recognized with an 'award of excellence' by ZAKA, Israel's primary rescue and recovery voluntary service.

· Ironically, it was pressure instigated by the Pentecostal Fellowship of Nigeria, with the NBC acting as a gatekeeper that allowed Joshua to flourish even further and set up Emmanuel TV. On April 30 2004, a law by the National Broadcasting Commission (NBC) came into effect, making it illegal to broadcast material containing the performance of miracles that have not been verified before the broadcast.

· In 2011, Joshua was third on the Forbes list of Nigeria’s five richest pastors, whose net worth was estimated at close to $15-million.

Religious Controversy

The Christian Association of Nigeria (CAN) and Pentecostal Fellowship of Nigeria (PFN) both acknowledged Joshua was not a member of either organization and denounced him as an 'impostor'. Enoch Adeboye, David Oyedepo, Ayo Oritsejafor, Paul Adefarasin and Matthew Ashimolowo are among the pastors that publicly denounced Joshua as an "impostor" who belonged to a group of "occults" that had infiltrated Christianity.

The CAN and PFN have also maitained that Joshua had no traceable record of mentorship and grounding according to the biblical model.

When he started his ministry probably up to the point of his death he didn’t have a church council, elders or deacons because he believed this would limit the grace of God that works through him.

He did not publish a statement of faith or theology in line with mainstream churches and practice.

Famous Ghanaian witch doctor, Nana Kwaku Bonsam once claimed T.B Joshua goes to him to acquire spiritual powers and challenged the Nigerian prophet to come out openly to deny.

Blacklisted in Cameroon:

He was 'blacklisted' by the government of Cameroon in 2010 and termed a 'son of the devil'. Rumours of a visit by Joshua to Zimbabwe in 2012 led to an intense national debate, culminating with pastors and politicians strongly objecting.

US election prophecy:

Joshua incorrectly predicted that Hillary Clinton would win the 2016 US election. After this prophecy failed to materialize, with Donald Trump winning the election, Joshua stated that he was referring to Clinton's win in the popular vote and any misinterpretation was due to a lack of "spiritual understanding".

Coronavirus:

Joshua claimed that COVID-19 would disappear globally on 27 March 2020.

His Ministration & Practice

He wielded enormous power - people fell when he spread out his arms, rolled when he snapped his fingers, and his breath pushed back rows and rows of his congregation.

To witness his prayer sessions in the early days of his televised ministry was to be treated to exorcism that many felt bordered on the occult.

On some occasions, he gazed intently at those he was praying for and seemed to control the movement of others with an invisible remote. His critics believe he could use his eyes with demonic powers in them to superimpose his thoughts into people a practice referred to as mesmerism or hypnotism.

Some of it felt like a hypnotic session, others like that of a magician at work.

His critics believe, telepathizing, hypnotism, occultism, kabbalah magic are processes of ruling the minds of weaker men. It could go to the length of seeing the magic maker in the dreams once the weaker person allows the demonic spirit of the conjurer to influence his mind.

He prayed over handkerchiefs, photographs and other personal belongings and asked people to take them home with them.

He also prayed over little bags of water, which were handed out at the church for people to suck and receive healing.

There were also reports that Joshua referred to the water in the bags as the ''blood of Christ'' (What about Holy Communion and its interpretation?).

His critics also associated the extreme shaking of the hand to shamanism.

He believed illness was caused by sin. If someone was healed and become ill again, it is because the person had sinned again.

Question & Answer Interview

“Given by T.B Joshua in a book called Pastor W.F. Kumuyi and Prophet T.B. Joshua: Are both messengers of God? By Isaac B. Agbaje and Abieye Kalu.”

Q: Why he doesn't criticize other men of God?

A: "Despite the fact that many fellow ministers of God daily blaspheme against me, I refrain from retaliating, because I know the grave consequences of criticizing an anointed man of God ... For instance, if you are a minister of God, but deliberately go out of your way to blaspheme against another man of God, whom you knew is a true man of God, you have lost one or two of your spiritual powers to the colleague you blasphemed against unjustifiably."

Q: Why he is a vegetarian?

A: "I was not born a vegetarian. In fact, when God sent me on this mission, I realized that my work is tedious. I will refer to John 5:37: "And the Father who sent me hath borne witness to me, His Voice you have never heard, His form you have never seen."

"In a week I deliver contrary spirit carriers (Ogbanjes), witches and wizards (about 1000 of them). They are not ordinary human beings. Some are half human and half fish. So if you eat fish you cannot deliver them."

Q: His unique divine personality.

A: "The divine person in me can do a million things simultaneously. I can appear to thousands people in their dreams in any part of the world to set them free of their sicknesses, problems and afflictions."

My Opinion

Unlike his peers Prophet Joshua did not establish church branches on every street corner and mostly kept his family in the background. The church was him and he was the church, each a reflection of the other. It was a typical one-man show, although he has disciples. It will be interesting to see how the church will chart the way forward without him.

Many of the things he was criticized for are also practiced by many of the Pentecostals who are no less deified by their members but because he did not belong to the clique or fall into their own description of God, he was demonized.

Religion has been used to a larger extent to divide people and take away their dignity and their identity it is for this reason that I am not a fan of religion.

Spiritual laws will always trample on religion because they are no respecter of any human being, place and time. Regardless of your colour, creed and nationality wherever you are the law of gravity will always work and the same goes with other laws of creation.

He was rough. He was crude. His methods were unorthodox!

By Reul Reul

REFERENCES & CREDITS

BBC World Africa

Adom TV - Bishop Kayode Peller

Wikipedia - By TBJ Arabic - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0

Apologetics Coordination Team

Mail & Guardian

[westernriteorthodoxrosary]

Reader’s Service of Prayer for Protection from the Coronavirus (OCA NJ&NY 2020)

In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, One God. Amen.

Through the prayers of our holy Fathers, O Lord Jesus Christ our God, have mercy on us. Amen.  Glory to Thee, our God, glory to Thee.

*(If it is the season during Pascha and before Pentecost, omit the prayers “O Heavenly King…” and “Holy God, Holy Mighty…” Replace with reciting three times “Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs bestowing life!”)

O Heavenly King, Comforter, Spirit of Truth, Who art everywhere present and fillest all things, Treasury of good things and Giver of life: Come and dwell in us, and cleanse us of all impurity, and save our souls, O Good One.

Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us. (3x)

Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, both now and ever, and unto the unto the ages of ages. Amen.

O Most Holy Trinity, have mercy on us. O Lord, blot out our sins. O Master, pardon our iniquities. O Holy One, visit and heal our infirmities for Thy name’s sake.

Lord have mercy. (3x)

Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, both now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen.

Our Father, Who art in the Heavens, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one. O Lord, Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us. Amen.  

Lord, Have mercy. (Twelve times)

Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, both now and ever, and unto the unto the ages of ages. Amen.

O come, let us worship God our King.

O come, let us worship and fall down before Christ our King and God.

O come, let us worship and fall down before Christ Himself, our King and God.

Psalm 51: Have mercy on me, O God, according to Thy steadfast love; according to Thy abundant mercy, blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin! For I know my transgressions and my sin is ever before me. Against Thee, Thee only, have I sinned, and done that which is evil in Thy sight, so that Thou art justified in Thy sentence and blameless in Thy judgment. Behold! I was brought forth in iniquity and in sin did my mother conceive me. Behold! Thou desirest truth in the inward being; therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart. Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Fill me with joy and gladness; let the bones which Thou hast broken rejoice. Hide Thy face from my sins and blot out all my iniquities. Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me. Cast me not away from Thy presence and take not Thy Holy Spirit from me. Restore to me the joy of Thy salvation and uphold me with a willing Spirit. Then I will teach transgressors Thy ways and sinners will return to Thee. Deliver me from blood guiltiness, O God, Thou God of my salvation, and my tongue will sing aloud of Thy deliverance. O Lord, open Thou my lips, and my mouth shall show forth Thy praise. For Thou hast no delight in sacrifice; were I to give a burnt offering, Thou wouldst not be pleased. The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, Thou wilt not despise. Do good to Zion in Thy good pleasure; rebuild the walls of Jerusalem. Then wilt Thou delight in right sacrifices, in burnt offerings and whole burnt offerings; then bulls will be offered on Thy altar.

Creed: I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth and of all things visible and invisible.And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the only-begotten, begotten of the Father before all ages. Light of light; true God of true God; begotten, not made; of one essence with the Father, by Whom all things were made; Who for us men and for our salvation came down from Heaven, and was incarnate of the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary, and became man. And He was crucified for us under Pontius Pilate, and suffered, and was buried. And the third day He arose again, according to the Scriptures, and ascended into Heaven, and sits at the right hand of the Father; and He shall come again with glory to judge the living and the dead; Whose Kingdom shall have no end. And in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the Giver of Life, Who proceeds from the Father; Who with the Father and the Son together is worshipped and glorified; Who spoke by the prophets.In one Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church. I acknowledge one baptism for the remission of sins. I look for the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come. Amen.

Troparion (Tone 4) Thou alone can help us, O Christ! Visit Thy suffering servants! Deliver them from sickness and affliction! Raise them up to sing Thy praise, O Lover of man, through the prayers of the Theotokos. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen.

Kontakion (Tone 2) O Savior, Thou healed the paralytic carried to Thee! Thou raised Peter’s motherin-law from her infirmities! Take pity on Thy servants! Heal their sicknesses and forgive all their sins! Thou hast borne our afflictions, O Mighty Lord. Thou hast carried all our sorrows, O Lover of man!

Litany of Fervent Supplication Reader: Have mercy on us, O God, according to Thy great goodness, we pray Thee, hearken and have mercy. Everyone: Lord, have mercy. (3 times)

Reader: Again we pray for our Metropolitan Tikhon, our Archbishop Michael, the priests, deacons, and all other clergy, and all our brethren in Christ.

Everyone: Lord, have mercy. (3 times)

Reader: Again we pray for the President of our country, for all civil authorities, and for the armed forces. Everyone: Lord, have mercy. (3 times)

Reader: Again we pray for mercy, life, peace, health, salvation, visitation, and the pardon and remission of sins for the servants of God (names of those we wish to pray for), who are under the impending threat of the Coronavirus, those who are suffering and those who are recovering from this affliction.

Everyone: Lord, have mercy. (3 times)

Reader: Again we pray that He will protect this home and this city and every city and countryside from the Coronavirus, pestilence, earthquake, flood, fire, the sword, the invasion of enemies, and from civil war; and that our good God will turn away from us all wrath stirred up against us, and deliver us from all His righteous chastisement which impends upon us, and have mercy on us.

Everyone: Lord, have mercy. (3 times)

Reader: Again we pray that the Lord God will hearken to the voice of the petition of us sinners, and show mercy upon us. Everyone: Lord, have mercy. (3 times)

Reader: Through the prayers of our Holy Fathers, Lord Jesus Christ our God, have mercy on us.

Everyone: Amen.

Reader: Let us pray to the Lord.

Everyone: Lord, have mercy.

Reader: O God Almighty, Lord of heaven and earth, and of all creation visible and invisible, in Thine ineffable goodness, look down upon us, Thy people gathered in Thy Holy Name. Be our helper and defender in this day of affliction. Thou knowest our weakness. Thou hearest our cry in repentance and contrition of heart. O Lord who lovest mankind, deliver us from the impending threat of the Coronavirus. Send Thine angel to watch over us and protect us. Grant health and recovery to those suffering from this virus. Guide the hands of physicians and nurses, and preserve those who are healthy that we may continue to serve our suffering brothers and sisters in peace, that together we may glorify thy most honorable and majestic name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages.

Everyone: Amen.

Everyone: Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen. Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. O Lord, bless us!

Reader: Through the prayers of our Holy Fathers, through the prayers of the Most Holy Theotokos and Ever-Virgin Mary, by the power of the precious and lifecreating Cross, through the protection of the honorable bodiless Powers of Heaven, through the prayers of the holy, glorious Prophet, Forerunner and Baptist John, through the prayers of the holy, glorious and all-laudable Apostles, through the prayers of all the Saints who have shown forth in North America, through the prayers of all the faithhealing unmercenary Physicians, the Saints (names) whom we commemorate today, of the holy and righteous Ancestors of God Joachim and Anna, and of all the Saints, Lord Jesus Christ our God, have mercy on us and save us.

Everyone: Amen. (Family members come and venerate the precious cross and Icons in our Icon Corner)

Reader: Through the prayers of our Holy Fathers, Lord Jesus Christ our God, have mercy on us and save us.

Everyone: Amen. Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

It is truly meet to bless thee, the Theotokos, ever blessed and most blameless, and Mother of our God. More honorable than the Cherubim, and beyond compare more glorious than the Seraphim, who without corruption gavest birth to God the Word, the very Theotokos, thee do we magnify.

Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, both now and ever, and unto the ages of ages.  Amen.

Lord, have mercy. Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy.

O Lord, Bless.

O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, for the sake of the prayers of Thy most pure Mother, of our holy and God-bearing fathers, and all the saints, have mercy on us and save us, for Thou art good and the Lover of mankind.  

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. One God. Amen.

[pamphletstoinspire]

The Church's Year - INSTRUCTION ON THE FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST

At the Introit implore God's assistance and say, with the priest:

INTROIT Hear, O Lord, my voice with which I have cried to thee: be thou my helper, forsake me not, nor do Thou despise me, O god, my Savior. (Ps. XXVI.) The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? Glory be to the Father, etc.

COLLECT O God, who host prepared invisible good things for those that love Thee: pour into our hearts such a sense of Thy love, that we, loving Thee in all, and above all, may obtain Thy promises, which exceed all out desire: Through etc.

EPISTLE (I Peter III. 8-15.) Dearly beloved, Be ye all of one mind, having compassion one of another, being lovers of the brotherhood, merciful, modest, humble: not rendering evil for evil, nor railing for railing, but contrariwise, blessing: for unto this you are called; that you may inherit a blessing. For he that will love life, and see good days, let him refrain his tongue from evil, and his lips that they speak no guile. Let him decline from evil, and do good: let him seek?after peace, and, pursue it: because the eyes of the Lord are upon the just, and his ears unto their. prayers: but the countenance of the Lord upon them that do evil, things. And, who is he that can, hurt you, if you: be zealous of good? But if also you suffer any thing for, justice' sake, blessed are ye. And be not afraid of their fear, and be not troubled: but sanctify the Lord Christ, in your hearts.

How can and how should we sanctify the Lord in our hearts?

By practising those virtues which Peter here recommends, and which he so exactly describes; for thereby we become true disciples of Christ, honor Him and edify others, who by our good example are led to admire Christianity, and to become His followers. Moreover, we thus render ourselves more worthy of God's grace and protection, so that if for justice' sake we are persecuted by, wicked men, we need not fear, because God is for us and will reward us with eternal happiness.

ASPIRATION O good Saviour, Jesus Christ, grant that I may make Thy virtues my own; especially Thy humility, patience, mercy, and love; grant that I may practise them diligently, that I may glorify Thee, sanctify myself, and thus become worthy of Thy protection.

GOSPEL (Matt. V. 20-24.) At that time, Jesus said to his disciples: Except your justice abound more than that of the Scribesand Pharisees, you shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. You have heard that it was said to them of old: Thou shalt not kill: and whosoever shall kill, shall be in danger of the judgment. But I say to you, that whosoever is angry with his brother, shall be in danger of the judgment. And whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council. And whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire. If therefore, thou bring thy gift at the altar, and there thou remember that thy brother bath anything against thee, leave there thy offering befog a the altar, and go first to be reconciled to thy brother: and then coming, thou shaft offer thy gift.

In what did the justice of the Pharisees consist?

In external works of piety, in the avoidance of such gross vices as could not be concealed, and would have brought them to shame and disgrace. But in their hearts these Pharisees cherished evil, corrupt inclinations and desires, pride, envy, avarice, and studied malice and vengeance. Jesus, therefore, called them hypocrites, whitened sepulchres, and St. John calls them a brood of vipers. True Justice consists not only in external works of piety, that is, devotional works, but especially in a pure, sincere, self?sacrificing feeling towards God and man; without this all works, however good, are only a shell without a kernel.

How are we to understand that which Christ here says of anger and abusive words?

The meaning of Christ's words are:. You have heard that murder was forbidden to your fathers in the desert, and that the murderer had to be given up to justice: but I say to you, whoever becomes angry with his neighbor, shall be in danger of divine judgment, and he who with abusive words, such as Raca, Villain, gives vent to his anger, using expressions of contempt and insult, as fool, scoundrel, profligate, wretch, is more liable to punishment. These degrees of anger are punished in different ways by God.

Is anger always sinful?

No, anger is sinful only when we wish or actually inflict some evil to the body, property, or honor of our neighbor; when we make use of such insulting and abusive words as injure his character, provoke and irritate him. If we become angry at the vices and crimes of others, when our office or the duties of our station demand that we watch over the conduct of those under our care, to punish and correct them, (as in the case of parents, teachers, and superiors) then anger is no sin. When one through pure love of God, becomes irritated at the sins and vices of his fellowmen, like King David, or if one urged to wrong, repels the tempter with indignation, this is even a holy anger. Thus St. Gregory Says; "It is to be understood that anger created by impatience is a very different thing from anger produced by a zeal for justice. The one is caused by vice, the other by virtue." He, then, who becomes angry for justice' sake, commits no sin, but his conduct is holy and praiseworthy, for even our Lord was angry at those who bought and sold in the temple, (John II. 15.) Paul at the magician Elymas, (Acts XIII. 8.) and Peter at the deceit of Ananias and Saphira. (Acts V. 3.) Anger, then, to be without sin, must proceed from true zeal for God's honor and the salvation of souls, by which we seek to prevent others from sin, and to make them better. Even in this respect, we must be careful to allow our anger no control over our reason, but to use it merely as a means of doing good, for we are often apt to take the sting of anger for holy zeal, when it is really nothing but egotism and ambition.

Why must we first be reconciled with our neighbor before bringing an offering to God, or undertaking any good work?

Because no offering or other good work can be pleasing to God, while we live in enmity, hatred, and strife with our neighbor; for by living thus we act altogether contrary to God's will. This should be remembered by all Christians, who go to confession and holy Communion, without forgiving those who have offended them, and asking pardon of those whom they have injured. These must know that instead of receiving absolution for their sins, they by an invalid confession are guilty of another sin, and eat their own judgment in holy Communion.

How should reconciliation be made with our neighbor?

With promptness, because the apostle says: Let not the sun go down upon your anger. (Eph. IV. 26.) But if the person you have offended is absent, says St. Augustine, and you cannot easily meet him, you are bound to be reconciled to him interiorly, that is, to humble yourself before God, and ask His forgiveness, making the firm resolution to be reconciled to your enemy as soon as possible. If he is accessible, go to him, and ask his forgiveness; if he has offended you, forgive him from your heart. The reconciliation should be sincere, for God sees into the heart; it should also be permanent, for if it is not lasting, it may be questioned if it was ever sincere. On account of this command of Christ to be reconciled to our enemies before bringing sacrifice, it was the custom in ancient times that the faithful gave. the kiss of peace to one another at the sacrifice of Mass, before Communion, as even to this day do the priests and deacons, by which those who are present, are admonished to love one another with holy love, and to be perfectly reconciled with their enemies, before Communion.

ASPIRATION O God, strike me not with the blindness of the Pharisees that, like them, I may seek to please man by my works, and thus be deprived of eternal reward. Banish from my heart all sinful anger, and give me a holy zeal in charity that I may be anxious only for Thy honor and for the salvation of my neighbor. Grant me also that I may offend no one, and willingly forgive those who have offended me, thus practicing true Christian justice, and become agreeable to Thee.

MEANS OF PREVENTING ANGER

The first and most effectual preventive is humility; for as among the proud there are always quarrels and contentions, (Prov. XIII. 10.) so among the humble reign peace, meekness and patience. To be humble, meek, and patient, we must frequently bring before our minds the example of Christ who did not sin, neither was guile found in His mouth, (I Peter II. 22.) yet suffered great contradictions, many persecutions, scoffs and sneers from sinners, without threatening vengeance to any one for all He suffered; He say's to us in truth: Learn of me, because I am meek and humble of heart. (Matt. XI. Z9.) A very good preventive of anger is to think over in the morning what causes will be likely to draw us into anger at any time during the day, and to arm ourselves against it by a firm resolution to bear all with patience and silence; and when afterwards anything unpleasant occurs, let us think, "What will I effect by my anger? Can I thereby make things better? Will I not even make myself ridiculous and injure my health?" (for experience as well as holy Scripture teaches, that anger shortens life.) (Eccles. XXX. 26.) Finally, the most necessary preventive of anger is fervent prayer to God for the grace of meekness and patience, for although it seems difficult and almost impossible to our nature to be patient, by the grace of God it becomes not only possible, but even easy.

INSTRUCTION ON SACRIFICE

Offer thy gift. (Matt. V. 24.)

In its wider and more universal sense sacrifice comprehends all religious actions by which a rational being; presents himself to God, to be united with Him; and in this sense prayer, praising God, a contrite heart, charity to others, every good work, and observance of God's commandments is a sacrifice. Thus the Holy Scriptures say: Offer up the sacrifice of justice and trust in the Lord. (Fs. IV. 6.) Offer to God the sacrifice of praise. (Ps. XLIX. iq..) Sacrifice to God is an afflicted spirit; a contrite and humble heart, O God, thou wilt not despise. (Ps. 1. 19.) It is a wholesome sacrifice to take heed to the commandments, and to depart from, all iniquity. (Ecclus. XXXV. 2.) "Therefore," says St. Augustine, "every good work which is united in sanctity with God, is a true sacrifice, because it refers to the end of all good, to God, by whom we can be truly happy." As often, then, as you humble yourself in prayer before the majesty of God, when you give yourself up to God, and when you make your will subject to His divine will, you bring a sacrifice to God; as often as you punish your body by continency, and your senses by mortification, you bring a sacrifice to God, because you offer them as instruments of justice; (Rom. VI. 13.) as often as you subdue the evil concupiscence of the flesh, the perverted inclinations of your soul, deny yourself any worldly pleasure for the love of God, you bring a sacrifice to God. Such sacrifices you should daily offer to God; without which all others have no value and do not please God, such as these you can make every moment, when you think, speak, and act all for the love, of God.

Strive then, Christian soul, to offer these pleasing sacrifices to God, the supreme Lord, and as you thus glorify Him, so will He one day reward you with unutterable glory.

[Concerning Sacrifice in a stricter sense, especially the Sacrifice of Jesus on the Cross and its renewal in holy Mass, see the latter part of this book.]

[connorkizer]

Connor Kizer 1123 Gorsuch Ave, Baltimore, MD 21218 connor@whamcity.com (443) 800-0280 

Collaborative Projects

2003-2012 Ram Ones

2004 Wham City's Beauty and the Beast – Lumiere, Wham City (Copycat location), Baltimore MD

2005-2012 Santa Dads

2005 Sad Little Pony – the Sire, Current Gallery, Baltimore MD

2006 A New Play – narrator, Walters Art Museum, Baltimore MD

2007 Wham City Theater Night – various Baltimore Theater Project, Baltimore MD

2007-present   The Creepers

2008 They Should All Be Destroyed:  A Jurassic Park Play – Muldoon, Northeast Tour

2009 “Letters” (co-writer) – Reality and Revenge Ten Minute Play Festival, Leg, Annex Theater, Baltimore MD

2009 Matsukaze – voice of Matsukaze, Annex Theater, Baltimore MD

2009 Wham City and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull – various, Deleon White Gallery, Toronto ONT

2010 Collinsport  (co-writer) – Man in the Iron Mask, Annex Theater, Baltimore MD 

2011 Tlon (writer/director/performer)- Artscape, Baltimore MD

2010-12 Wham City Comedy Tour - various

2012- Less Miserable - Thenardier, Missoula Oblongata, Northeast Tour

2014 Chronotony – (writer/director/producer) E.M.P. Collective, Fields Festival, Baltimore MD

2014 Potatoes of August – Potato. E.M.P. Collective, Baltimore MD

2015 Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman – Grandpa, Annex Theater, Baltimore MD

2015 Behold! The Man – (writer/director) E.M.P. Collective, Baltimore MD

2015 The Magic Flute – Priest, Annex Theater, Baltimore MD

2015 Seasonings: A Musical Menu – (co-writer/director) Mondo Festo, Baltimore MD

2016 Adam’s Run – (co-director) Rodney Richards, Rhymes with Opera, New York City, NY

2016-present The Flowery

2016 The Flower Queen – (writer/director/producer/performer) Monster, Zodiac, Baltimore MD

2017 Fruits – Zane, Feral Woman, Baltimore MD

2017 A Good Man Is Hard to Find – (writer/producer) Bailey, Feral Woman, Baltimore MD

2017 (pending) Trool Day ­­– Gurgiev, Adult Swim, Atlanta GA

Theater

2004 Wham City's Beauty and the Beast – Lumiere, Wham City (Copycat location), Baltimore MD

2005 Sad Little Pony – the Sire, Current Gallery, Baltimore MD

2006 A New Play – narrator, Walters Art Museum, Baltimore MD

2007 Wham City Theater Night – various Baltimore Theater Project, Baltimore MD

2009 “Letters” (co-writer) – Reality and Revenge Ten Minute Play Festival, Leg, Annex Theater, Baltimore MD

2009 Matsukaze – voice of Matsukaze, Annex Theater, Baltimore MD

2009 Wham City and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull – various, Deleon White Gallery, Toronto ONT

2010 Collinsport  (co-writer) – Man in the Iron Mask, Annex Theater, Baltimore MD 

2011 Tlon (writer/director/performer)- Artscape, Baltimore MD

2010-12 Wham City Comedy Tour - various

2012- Less Miserable - Thenardier, Missoula Oblongata, Northeast Tour

2014 Chronotony – (writer/director/producer) E.M.P. Collective, Fields Festival, Baltimore MD

2014 Potatoes of August – Potato. E.M.P. Collective, Baltimore MD

2015 Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman – Grandpa, Annex Theater, Baltimore MD

2015 Behold! The Man – (writer/director) E.M.P. Collective, Baltimore MD

2015 The Magic Flute – Priest, Annex Theater, Baltimore MD

2015 Seasonings: A Musical Menu – (co-writer/director) Mondo Festo, Baltimore MD

2016 The Flower Queen – (writer/director/producer/performer) Monster, Zodiac, Baltimore MD

2017 Fruits – Zane, Feral Woman, Baltimore MD

2017 A Good Man Is Hard to Find – (writer/producer) Bailey, Feral Woman, Baltimore MD

Film

2016 Adam’s Run – (co-director) Rodney Richards, Rhymes with Opera, New York City, NY

2017 (pending) Trool Day ­­– Gurgiev, Adult Swim, Atlanta GA

Lectures

2005  “On Temporal Dimensions” – Wham City Lecture Series – Wham City (Copycat location), Baltimore MD

2005-9 “Slitherpuss Stories” – various

2008 “Emergence of Consciousness into the Noosphere” – Transmodern Festival, Baltimore MD

2008  “Emergence of Consciousness into the Noosphere” – Wham City at the Walters Museum, Baltimore MD

2009 “Connor Kizer and His Psychopomoi” – Transmodern 2009 Fundraiser, 5th Dimension, Baltimore MD

2009  “Connor Kizer’s Cosmology” – Fluxus Festival, SUNY Purchase

2009 Transmodern 2010 Fundraiser co-host – Floristree, Baltimore MD

2009 “Nazi Ice World Cosmology” – Wham City Lecure Series – Zodiac, Baltimore MD

2010 “The Pain of Words and Names” – WORMS Reading Series, Zodiac, Baltimore MD 

2012 "Alien Advertising Effects Us All"- Wham City Educational Seminar, Northeast Tour

2013 “Pseudohistories” – Wham City Lecture Series, Zodiac Baltimore MD

2013 “Cosmology” – Wham City Lecture Series, Zodiac Baltimore MD

2014 “The Hope of Televsion” – Wham City Lecture Series, Zodiac Baltimore MD

2016 “Cultures That Never Were” – Wham City Lecture Series, The Crown Baltimore MD

2016 “The Dangers of Vigilantism in Tentpole Blockbusters” – Johns Hopkins Film Festival, Baltimore MD

 Curatorial

2006-2012 Wham City Lecture Series

2007 Wham City Christmas Spectacular (co-writer) – Load of Fun Theater, Baltimore MD

2008 Dreamteam performance – Wham City (Calvert Street location), Baltimore MD 

Publications

2005-present Infomorph:  Project Psychopomp, issues 1-4 – philosophical texts, self-published

2006  “The New Gender” – short story, Catatac Magazine

2008  “The Incomplete Dictionary of Zasaa” – lexicon,  Wham City Box Set #1, Whitney Museum

2009 “Connor Kizer’s Cosmology” – powerpoint/DVD, Invisible College Productions 

Music

2003-2012 Ram Ones

2005-2012 Santa Dads

2007-present   The Creepers

2007 Dan Deacon, Spiderman of the Rings (Car Park Records), studio musician (vocals)

2009 Dan Deacon, Bromst (Car Park Records), studio musician (trumpet)

2016-present The Flowery

Awards, Honors, Residencies

Resident Director – E.M.P. Collective 2015

Best Lecture Series – Wham City Lecture Series- Baltimore Magazine 2009

Best Non-Musical Bar Act – Wham City Lecture Series – City Paper Best of Baltimore 2009

Best Hive – Wham City – City Paper Best of Baltimore 2006 

Enhanced Awareness Honors – Teller of Tales that Tingle - 2012

Resident Director – E.M.P. Collective 2015

 Press

"Crazy Diamonds" - Arts section feature on Wham City - March 16, 2007

"The Sound and the Furry" - Arts section feature on Santa Dads - City Paper, April 4, 2007

“Out of Speech” – Arts section feature article on Wham City Lecture Series – City Paper, March 2, 2010

“Connor Kizer's play imagines all time as a single moment” – Arts section feature article on original play Chronotony – City Paper, April 30, 2014

“Childhood goes dark in 'The Flower Queen'” – Arts/Stage, City Paper, October, 9, 2016

“ENTER THE REALM OF THE FLOWER QUEEN: AN INTERVIEW WITH ALLISON CLENDANIEL AND CONNOR KIZER” – Theatrebloom.com, October 18, 2016

“REVIEW: THE FLOWER QUEEN AT YELLOW SIGN THEATRE” – Theatrebloom.com, October 20, 2016